Messiah Josiah
by A Green Being
Summary: Jim Dunbar and the continuing saga with his wife and squad, and a new case involving a would be messiah whose track record includes some naughty, un messiah like things. Complete, with deleted scenes.
1. Chapter 1

**Messiah Josiah****

* * *

**

Chapter 1

He'd always hated treadmills—running, running, running, like when you get chased in a dream. You never get anywhere, and in a minute or two, your throat's going to be slit and you'll be lying in a pool of blood, but you'll be able to see yourself from above, like an angel, a total out of body experience. And there'd be no pain, like you were a ghost to begin with. Like you'd never been human, just detached from the body. Sometimes he felt that way about being blind, too: detached.

Out of body was the only way to deal with the treadmill, too. Let the body run while the mind escape the interminable boredom by thinking of anything else. Jim had found the treadmill to be one of the best ways to keep in shape lately. Endless, running. Maybe he was getting used to it, because he had to admit, it wasn't as bad anymore—there wasn't anything to see, anyway. He was coming to terms with that. Even if he'd been in Central Park, he'd have had to imagine the scenery. Here, he could imagine whatever he wanted without worrying about ducking trees and dodging dogs. And he didn't need a guide.

Hank was waiting patiently when Jim was done with the treadmill. Hank didn't care for the machines much, either. He preferred chasing a ball in the park—why run if you couldn't chase a ball? Or a rabbit, or a squirrel? Humans didn't make much sense. He sneezed on the treadmill as he passed on the way to his master, just to show it how little he thought of it.

Jim followed Hank back to his gym bag, panting like, well, like Hank did after they'd been playing ball and Frisbee and tug-of-war in the park for an hour. Jim grabbed his towel from his bag and wiped off the dripping sweat. He'd pushed himself harder today than usual. If he could barely breathe, his brain wouldn't be working overtime, thinking of Christie or Marty or cases they were working. Sometimes even cases they'd closed, they wouldn't stay out of his brain. What if…? What if they'd gotten there sooner, what if they'd pieced it together faster?

Jim showered before putting on his suit and heading home to Christie.

Only Christie wasn't there. They weren't much for notes, since Christie didn't care for Braille, and there was no message on the answering machine. The waiting game, see if she was mad at him, see if she had some huge project at work…

Jim got out the racquetball he liked to toss against the wall, bounce it off the floor, practice his special perception. He sat on the arm of the couch and Hank sat by, waiting for Jim to miss.

That was Hank's favorite part. Sometimes, if Jim hadn't missed in a while, Hank couldn't help himself and he would snatch it midair before it reached Jim's outstretched hand, and they'd run around the apartment, spreading dog drool all over, and they'd wrestle and both would end up panting on the floor in some corner of the apartment twenty minutes later, ready for a beer—or a bowl of water.

Jim idly tossed the ball, slow and rhythmic. He'd never been slow, or patient, when he could see. He'd never taken the time. He would have been like Hank, snatching the ball mid-air before it could get to him. He'd always been rushing off, if he managed to come home at all.

An image of Christie flashed through his mind. He would never forget her, even if sometimes he had trouble picturing her as a whole image. Sometimes all he could picture would be an eye, or the sheen of her hair as it fell across the backless velvet dress at the Christmas party two years ago. Sometimes he just heard the echo of her laugh in his mind, her excitement over the most trivial things, the way her voice got when she wanted him to do something she knew he wouldn't want to.

He had to admit, he'd had his own trivial interests before—bowling, playing pool, going to bars with the guys from the squad.

"You don't see enough of them during the day?" Christie'd snapped once.

Just time to unwind…

"Then what am I here for?"

She liked higher class things—fashion shows, jazz clubs, snazzy restaurants. She made lots of contacts with people in high places who had good taste, and she wasn't afraid to call upon those contacts when she wanted to go out.

Jim didn't mind going to see bands, he didn't mind music, but the clubs were never places he felt comfortable. He'd smile as she played her fingers through his hair, but the whole time he'd be thinking, when can we get out of here? He'd bob his head to the music like the other people in the club, but he'd have rather been somewhere louder, more exciting.

Like working a case, where he got to go all sorts of places and found himself in all different situations. He was never bored at work. He'd never felt out of place in a bar with the guys. He just couldn't get Christie to go to a low-class bar full of drunks and enthusiasm.

He had to admit, though, he'd much rather Christie be interested in what she was than going to poetry readings, snapping her fingers, wearing long flowy dresses and a black beret. He smiled, thinking of her as a sort of beatnik, passionate about some deep cause, saving whales. Christie'd never saved an endangered species in her life, though she might have worn one…

She was cute when she got excited—but manipulative. He often let her have her way, concessions for him being a bastard, and it made her more spoiled than ever.

They'd never had that much in common, trophy wife, trophy husband, but prone to fits of jealousy when the other strayed. Not that Christie strayed, but she did look, and she got looked at enough.

Christie kept trying to get him to connect, to talk to her. Jim just had trouble talking to her, spilling his soul. Christie was too close—if she knew he wasn't perfect, wasn't a knight in shining armor… If she knew, would she be able to accept that?

Jim had been shocked when he'd first kissed Anne, couldn't believe he'd do such a thing, had never consciously contemplated having an affair. But now he wondered if it was because Anne had connected with him in a way Christie never had. He'd married Christie because it seemed right—he was a grown-up, past his bachelor prime, and she was beautiful. With Anne—

He shook his head and missed the ball. Anne had been a mistake.

Hank ran after the ball as it bounced across the room, his paws sliding on the hardwood floors. He preferred playing ball outside because of that, but whatever the human wanted, he'd deal with it. Hank padded back over to Jim and set the slobbery ball in his lap, hoping for another toss, not just a pat on the head.

Jim patted Hank on the head.

"Hey, Dunbar, you should ask the chief about getting a badge for your dog," Marty'd said yesterday. "Get him a little holster, he can carry his own gun, too. You know, just in case," Marty'd said snidely.

Jim had figured the conversation would probably turn like that. It always did, though Marty hadn't been quite so bad lately. Comments Jim could deal with, just something to try his patience, penance. Marty was a jerk, but at least he was professional.

"Hey, Dunbar…"

Marty was just a voice. And a scent. And a feeling. Mostly a feeling. Jim always knew when he was around. But as a memory, he was different from Christie, because as a memory he ended up just a voice, not even a vague jumble of body parts.

Tom, Karen, and Lt. Fisk, they were all voices, too. Though Karen also had a size and shape, a lingering smell from working so closely with her. Women tended to smell more pervasively than men, lotions and shampoos and perfumes. They couldn't get enough of the stuff.

"Hey, Dunbar…"

He was really going to have to work to get Marty out of his head, except Marty'd said something the other day that had disturbed him, he couldn't get rid of it. Part of the reason he was so worried about what would happen when Christie finally came home.

"Hey, Dunbar, I know it's a few months away, but… You doing something special for your wife for Valentine's Day?"

Marty'd just been looking for ideas for something to do for his own wife, but it had hit Jim that he didn't know how they were going to spend Valentine's Day. He used to plan ahead, start thinking of ways to surprise Christie as early as possible. He did all of his holiday planning at once, Christmas, New Year's, Valentine's Day. He liked to keep them coordinated and under control. It was almost Halloween now—

Jim had actually gasped and felt the blood drain from his face. Late October…

He'd missed Christie's birthday almost three weeks ago.

And she'd never even mentioned it.

**

* * *

**

"Tissue paper?" Marty asked.

It had taken Jim three days since he'd finally remembered Christie's birthday to decide on a present. It wasn't like he could just go browse the shelves like he used to. He'd wanted something that would seem like it had taken ages to pick out and was very personalized. He'd gone out over his lunch hour to buy Christie the best consolation gift he'd thought of. He'd settled on jewelry and a new nightie, one that felt soft and inviting. He'd hoped to get it wrapped before anyone showed back up at the precinct.

"Yeah, Marty, it's tissue paper," Jim said without looking up. He hated folding clothes, but Christie would understand if it wasn't perfect. Oddly shaped things, women's night wear.

Sometimes she was too understanding, he thought. She would go out of her way to do things for him, things he knew he should be able to do on his own. If she would only take the time to help him figure out better ways to do things—

"Tissue paper just, you know, it's like you're trying too hard."

"Since when has tissue—" Jim looked up, annoyed, and cut himself off before he could get into an argument with Marty. Just because Marty liked arguing didn't mean he had to encourage him.

"What'd you do, forget her birthday?" Marty jibed.

Jim was quiet, he quickly turned back to the wrinkled paper and stuffed the whole thing into the gift bag.

Marty forced a laugh. "Come on, Dunbar, even you're not that much of an ass."

Silence.

"Are you?"

Marty's voice was quiet, far away, seeking confirmation, begging him to argue, say he was wrong. With something like that, Marty probably didn't want to be right. He'd rib Jim about the job and life, but not about marriage—that was serious, too close to home.

"Tissue paper?" Karen asked, walking up, bringing a waft of freshly brewed coffee. "Must be a really special occasion."

"Why?" Jim snapped, short tempered, unable to reign it in for once.

"Guys don't usually use tissue paper. You're lucky to get real wrapping paper out of most guys. A gift bag, maybe… Usually newspaper and a bit of duct tape…"

"Come on, Karen, guys are a little more classy than that," Mary said.

"Yeah, Karen," Jim said, not meaning it, just echoing, thinking hard about pulling the tissue paper out of the bag and trashing it.

"For girlfriends, yeah, maybe," Karen agreed. "They always try too hard."

Jim put the bag on the floor under his desk and quickly sat down, determined to ignore them.

"So you're saying you don't want a guy trying to treat you right when you're dating?" Marty asked.

"Sure he has to treat me right," Karen scoffed. "I'm just saying I don't want a guy to go out of his way to pretend he's into that sort of thing at the beginning of a relationship, not if he's going to stop after two months."

"You expect it?"

"You expect him to always act like himself, don't you?"

Marty grunted. Jim busied himself setting up his laptop.

"Marty, you've been married too long, that's your problem."

"That's a problem, is it, Karen?" Marty asked, obviously grinning.

"When you were dating, if a girl suddenly started acting weird, you didn't think, why didn't she act this way at the beginning?"

"Weird?"

"Like suddenly she wasn't interested in the same stuff you were anymore?"

There was a pause. Jim could practically hear them staring each other down. Marty shifted in his chair and played with something on his desk. "Are you saying you're interested in tissue paper?"

"Yeah, Marty," Karen said sarcastically, "I got a tissue paper collection at home. The gift doesn't matter as long as I get some real nice tissue paper."

Something hit Marty's desk and Jim imagined Karen had just shot a rubber band at him.

"All because of a little tissue paper," Jim muttered as he put in his earpiece.

"You and Christie have a fight, Jim?" Karen asked.

"Karen? Jim?" Lt. Fisk asked from across the room.

They both looked up.

"DOA, white male, here's the address."

Jim shut his laptop and stood up to put his overcoat on. He was almost thankful the guy had died, in a perverse way, getting him out of uncomfortable small-talk in the squad. Even if it was a trivial thing to die for.

* * *

Jim still had some pride, and Karen must have realized that because she didn't bring up Christie again as they drove to the squalid little apartment building.

"It's hard to tell one season from the next in the city," Karen observed, "what with no trees. The only way to tell is watching the department stores."

Jim grinned. They must have been passing Macy's.

Jim let Hank out the back door when they arrived and followed Karen toward the front door.

"Hmmph," she said. "Building's condemned. It's an old brownstone mansion, converted into apartments."

Jim followed her inside carefully. "Does it need to be condemned?" He was careful as he set each foot in front of the other.

"It's old. Not rotting or anything."

Jim nodded and listened to the bustle of the crime scene, all the uniformed officers milling around, talking and working. They were moving down a narrow hallway from the front entryway and Jim ran his free hand along the wall. His light touch revealed wallpaper so old it was peeling and cracking, probably no longer even sanitary; he pulled his hand back, then felt the hallway open up into a room of sorts where it was less stifling, even if it was crowded with people working the crime scene.

"Right here on the stairs," Karen said. "White male, late twenties. Shorts and a t-shirt, short dark hair…"

Jim stopped next to her.

"Lying on his back, about halfway up," she finished.

"Was he going up or down?" Jim asked.

"I dunno. His head is up, he's not upside down."

"Shot once in the chest," an officer said, coming up to them. "Just once, almost doesn't look fatal."

Jim raised his eyebrows. He'd have to ask Karen to explain that comment later. _…doesn't look fatal…_

"Hey," Tom said, walking up behind them.

Jim moved closer to the wall to let Tom and Marty pass. Best to let them see what they could.

Jim half listened as Tom spoke with the first officers who had been on the scene. The call had been an anonymous tip—dead body, condemned building, just wanted to let you know. The place had been quiet when the officers arrived.

While he listened he tried to get a feel for the place. The voices of various officers spread around the scene helped put dimensions on the room, more like a small sitting room for an old mansion that was 100 years past its prime. It wasn't much like a hallway, even though there were stairs leading up. There was must and urine in the air, and something indescribable. It wasn't food, exactly, but smelled faintly garlicky, like some cab drivers he'd ridden with recently.

The ceiling here was high, maybe fifteen feet, but it felt dark, even though he couldn't quite explain that feeling without asking Karen if it really was dark. It felt like there were no windows, or like they were covered up with thick blinds. He couldn't feel the sun, and the only fresh air they had was from the front door, twenty or thirty feet back, but it had been closed again.

"A couple families living upstairs," one of the officers was saying.

"Homeless?" Jim broke in.

"Probably. They weren't very talkative, they're out back right now."

Tom and Marty excused themselves a minute later to go talk to the two families.

"Seemed like they were in shock when we showed up and told them about the body."

"Someone they knew?" Karen asked.

Silence. Maybe a shrug. Jim turned toward the officer. "You said this guy's been dead two days. They didn't know he was here?"

"Apparently not. If they left, they could have gone out the back staircase. It leads from upstairs down to the courtyard out back."

"So they didn't see anyone around? Didn't even hear a gun shot?"

"No. But the slug passed clean through the body and got lodged in the stair underneath, so he was definitely shot right here. Didn't come crawling in, and he wasn't brought in."

Jim nodded and turned to where Karen had been standing. "Let's go talk to the families."

"Okay," Karen said.

She'd moved closer to the body. Jim corrected the angle of his head.

"Door's in the kitchen," the officer said, already moving away.

Jim urged Hank to follow Karen and left the officers pouring over the crime scene for any more evidence.

* * *

Jim stopped Karen in the kitchen. "Can you see them?"

"If I go over to the window."

"How many? What do they look like?"

"I thought this blind thing was going to give you a new perspective on things," Karen joked. "You know, no preconceived notions."

"I still like to know what things look like. Prepare myself."

"Not much to prepare for. They're just possible witnesses."

Jim smiled. "I'm always prepared."

"Three grown-ups. One male. He's black. So's one of the women. The other's as white as you are. Pale and blonde. The rest are kids. One baby. You wanna take the kids?"

It was no secret that Jim preferred to interview the kids sometimes, mostly because they didn't get so hung up on the fact that he was blind. They could relax, and he didn't always have to have his guard up.

Jim shook his head in answer to Karen's question. "Not yet. We shouldn't scare the kids until after we know better what's going on."

"I don't know about you, but I usually try not to scare the witnesses," Karen said as she opened the back door.

Jim followed her out. He felt Hank turn in the direction of the voices. Marty and Tom were already there. One of the women whimpered. Jim blanched; it didn't seem to be going so well.

"Let's go upstairs first. There's supposed to be a back staircase out here. Let Russo and Selway suffer a bit," Jim said.

"Okay." Karen scanned the backyard and Jim followed her to the stairs. The place had once had apartments upstairs, and a separate entrance had been added outside. Once upstairs, Karen told Jim there was "nothing up here." Nothing. No mattresses, no toys or extra clothes for the four kids. One extra reusable diaper that could only be washed at a service station down the street, since the building had no water or electricity.

"It's really bright. The windows are clean, no curtains. The walls are painted white. The carpet's old, but clean. Nothing much."

"Nothing?" he pressed.

"Well, half the ceiling is on the floor. You can see the beams up there, the plaster's all over the floor."

"Wouldn't you have cleaned that up, if it was you and some kids?" Jim queried.

"Let's go back down," Karen said. "Russo looks like he's about to get violent."

Jim followed, but wished he could have spent more time surveying the rooms. People were living there. There had to more than "nothing."

"Hey," Karen said when they got close to the witnesses.

"Hey," Tom greeted them.

"We thought we could split up, do a little one-on-one."

"No problem. Marty and I are going to take off. We got another call."

"You mean we gotta go through all this sht again?" an unfamiliar voice asked. Jim tried to size him up as the one male who'd been living upstairs. A big fellow with a deep voice.

"All what?" Marty asked. "You've told us nothing. You want to tell them nothing again, you go right ahead." The two other detectives started walking toward Jim, toward the house, their feet crunching on brittle end-of-season grass.

"Good luck," Tom said as he passed.

"Kick his ass, Jim, he needs a little working over," Marty said.

"You're gonna ask us the same crap, and we still don't know nothin'," the guy said.

"You're Rico Artez?" Karen asked quizzically. Jim moved closer and guessed that Tom and Marty had handed over some notes from their interview. He stood next to Karen, feeling oddly protective. He wasn't going to let this guy give crap to Karen; they were just doing their jobs.

"Yeah, I'm Rico Artez."

"You Hispanic?" Karen asked.

"What does it look like?"

"You have any ID?"

"No. I don't got a lot of things. Thought ID was a little worthless, you know? No bread, no running water, no way to protect my family," he said, getting a little worked up.

"And which one is your family."

"That girl, she's my sister. That one, she's my girlfriend. That kid, he's mine, the other three, they're hers."

"You mind if I talk to your sister?" Jim asked. He didn't know where the women were standing, but he didn't want to just stand around while Karen did most of the interviewing.

"Hey, you keep your hands off my sister."

"I'm not going to touch your sister. I'm going to talk to her." Jim beckoned to where he thought the women were standing, motioned for the sister to follow him. Then he signaled to Hank to walk away. He stopped after several yards.

"Yeah?" a small voice asked.

"What's your name?"

"DeLana."

"You Hispanic?"

"I, uh, no, I'm—"

Jim waved her explanation off. "You're Rico's sister?"

"Yeah."

"You been his sister your whole life?"

"Uh, no, I'm older than he is…"

Jim was pleasantly surprised at how quick she was, a nimble wit. "You know we just found a dead body in that building?"

"Yeah."

"You were living in that building?"

"Living?" she asked skeptically. "Staying, yeah."

"With three kids."

"Four if you—"

"But you have three."

"Yeah. I have three."

DeLana had three kids, one was nine, the oldest, a daughter named Tamika. The next was a daughter who was four, named DeWanda, the last a daughter aged two, named Cindy.

"Cindy?"

"I didn't name her."

"Who did?"

"What's this about, Detective?"

"Okay, okay." Jim cocked his head to the side and smiled at her. She had spunk, he admired that. She also had three kids and she was only 26. He hadn't even been married when he was 26, he'd just been getting out of the military then.

"There was a dead guy found in the building you're staying in. Did you know he was there?"

"No."

"He wasn't staying here, too?"

"No."

"You didn't hear any gunshots? You didn't know there was something dead in the building?"

"No. I guess I'm kinda dense, Detective."

"No, I think you should _be_ a detective, DeLana. You're very good at evading questions." He could tell that from her voice. She sounded scared, yet full of fire. He couldn't guess the origins of her nerves, but he had a feeling she was holding back.

"You done?" Rico asked, walking up.

"I'm done with the girlfriend," Karen said.

DeLana shrieked. Jim heard a large thump next to him and jumped. Karen gasped.

"What?" Jim asked, trying to remain calm, trying to remind Karen she couldn't go comatose on him; he needed her.

"He's having a seizure," DeLana said, dropping to her knees.

Jim dropped down beside her to help restrain him so he wouldn't hurt himself, but Rico went limp when Jim touched him. Jim quickly reached up to make sure he was still breathing. DeLana was crying, and so was someone else, probably the girlfriend. Two of the kids were yelling.

"Be quiet!" DeLana yelled over her shoulder. Her hands were moving over Rico's body, loosening clothes, checking his pulse, running into Jim's hands as he tried to do the same.

A moment later Rico was weakly clutching Jim's arm while Karen called for a rescue squad. DeLana rushed over to her.

"No! We can't afford a doctor. He's okay. It was a small one." She continued to argue with Karen.

Rico grabbed a piece of Jim's jacket and pulled him down. "What if I die?" His voice was slurred and soft.

"I don't know," Jim said quietly.

"Look, we got…" he trailed off and Jim was afraid he'd passed out. "Problems."

Jim tried to help him sit up, but he shook him off, keeping hold of Jim's coat to keep him close.

"If you put us somewhere safe…" Rico gasped. "They're gonna think we talked anyway." He gasped for breath again. He wasn't going to stay conscious much longer. "DeLana won't want to tell you. But if you protect us…" His hand slackened and fell to the ground. "Then I'll tell you. If they're safe…"

DeLana screamed again.

"It's okay," Jim said loudly over the crying of children. "He's alive."

DeLana sobbed. Jim wondered what all they knew. It could have been just a clever plan to get room and board in a nice place, or maybe they actually knew something—it was too soon to be sure.

* * *

Jim got home late, but Christie wasn't there yet. He set the gift on the table by the door where she'd be sure to see it, then changed his clothes and got a beer. Hank followed him around for a few minutes. He didn't seem to like it when Jim was preoccupied. He settled down by the sofa and Jim eventually stopped pacing and sat by the window, tapping the glass with the knuckle of his index finger.

His first thought was what Christie would say when she found the present. There would probably be a fight. He hadn't even gotten a card, hated picking them out. Besides, there was nothing a card could say that would make the situation any better. They didn't exactly make cards for "sorry I forgot your birthday, honey bunch, please don't hate me."

The case kept popping into his mind even as he tried to think only of the best thing to say when his wife got home. Her reaction, he would have no control over; he could never predict Christie. But the case, he had a chance where the case was concerned.

Except they had no clues. The only thing they had was a promise that the two families would be moved to a safe location and a doctor would look Artez over, for free. They didn't even know who the DOA was; he'd had no identification. They'd just have to wait to see if the fingerprints matched anyone or if a missing-person's report turned out to match.

"Lying on the stairs?" Jim had asked Karen as they went over the crime scene once more before leaving.

"Yeah, lying on the stairs," Karen said.

"And we'll just assume for now, despite whatever Artez wanted to say, that the two families upstairs, none of the seven of them have come downstairs in a couple days."

"Six," Karen argued. "You can't count the baby."

"Okay, okay, none of the six of them. Despite the fact that there's no food and no running water, they never left down that staircase." Jim patted the railing. He wanted to get closer, get a better look. Not that he enjoyed touching dead people, but he found his Hands-on-Homicide-Detecting was sometimes more thorough than anything the sighted detectives would notice. "Describe in detail what he's wearing."

"Khaki shorts, long ones, to the knee. A t-shirt. It's pale orange with green letters."

"What's it say?"

""Owls aren't pussycats." 'Owls' is capitalized."

"'Pussycats' isn't?"

"Nope."

"Bright green, dark green?"

"Like a dark lime."

Jim grimaced. "Stylish."

"And no shoes."

"In New York?" Jim started. "Does he look homeless?"

"He looks in way better shape than the families upstairs."

Jim wanted to make sure he had a thorough understanding of the scene. "Barefoot…" he said again. "Are his feet dirty?"

"What?" Karen asked with a short laugh, caught off-guard by the question. He heard her moving around, leaning against the wall, the railing creaked. "Uhhh, no."

"No. Huh."

It didn't make much sense, even after hours of thinking it over. An almost not fatal wounding with minimal blood, no sign of drugs in the vicinity, no wallet. But that could have been stolen, if it was a robbery. Yet, there was no indication of a robbery besides the lack of a wallet on the DOA.

Jim leaned his forehead against the apartment window and tried to clear his head of the case. He was home; he was supposed to have better things to do with his evenings. Jim tried to picture the street below, the brown brick of the buildings. He could hear the elevated train going by.

Christie still wasn't home.

The new case had come too late in the day for Jim to feel they had a satisfactory feel for it, and it was going to bother him all night.

And where was Christie?

"Hank." Jim stood up. He had to clear his head. With Hank back in harness the two walked down to the park. He needed to concentrate when walking around the city, and that would help clear his mind of the two things he didn't yet have control over.

* * *

The sun had set. It was definitely fall. Jim could find every tree in the park just by listening to the loud rustles of dried leaves overhead. He hadn't grabbed a coat and the wind was waging war on the crewneck shirt he wore.

"Come on, Hank," he said and changed their destination. He hadn't seen his wife in two days; a little walk in the park wasn't likely to clear his head.

Morrissey's Bar was right where he'd left it. He hadn't been there in over a year. In fact, he hadn't gone alone to a bar since he'd been shot, he realized as he reached out for the door. His hand touched the door and he considered for a second pulling back, unsure if he was ready for his first solo bar trip—bars were places full of chaos, and he found it difficult to deal with chaos he couldn't see—but he rallied and slid his hand down until he felt the handle. He squeezed it and pushed. He wanted a beer. He wanted a bar to call home again.

He used to spend a lot of time at Morrissey's, unwinding. No one from the 77 had hung out there, but he was there enough it was like having family close by. He knew Morrissey's. He'd stumbled out of there blind drunk once or twice, he thought grimly; just being blind and not drunk should be a piece of cake.

The early evening crowd was already there, he could tell by the level of conversation. Not yet the boisterous party crowd they'd get later that night.

"Jim! Jimmy-boy!"

Jim's head snapped up, his concentration broken. For a second the sounds of people and drinking flooded him and overwhelmed him to the point he couldn't let go of the door. Breathe, Jim. He inhaled cigarette smoke and oxygen.

"Jimmy-boy! Long time no see."

Jim grinned against his will. "Gray!" He'd finally recognized the bartender's gravelly voice. Gray was about thirty-five, younger than Jim, an ex-Navy Seal with a sense of mischief that had almost gotten him booted out of the Seals at least once a week, so he claimed. Jim nudged Hank to the right, toward the bar, hoping for an empty barstool so he wouldn't have to find a table. He'd usually stayed at the bar when he frequented the place before, talking shop and shit with Gray and whoever else was around.

Jim stopped at the bar. "How you been?" he asked before Gray could bring up the past year.

"Can't complain," Gray said.

Jim adjusted his gaze so he was facing the bartender more squarely. "Me either," he said with a grin. He'd kept an ear on the bar, never knowing a silent drunk. He couldn't hear anyone talking or any mugs hitting the counter, so he reached out with his right hand and found a barstool to hoist himself onto. Hank settled in the corner out of the way. Jim was relieved to have a spot at the end of the bar.

"You drinking?" Gray asked.

"Yeah, gimme a beer." Settled, he relaxed, cracked his neck, touched the bar in front of him, claiming his space for the evening. A bottle hit the counter in front of him and he reached out, snagging the beer to situate it where he wanted it. "Thanks." He took a swig, then set it back. "Hey, Gray…" He trailed off in case the bartender had wandered off to help another patron.

"Yeah?" He hadn't moved from in front of Jim.

"What are your thoughts on tissue paper?"

Gray guffawed. "Tissue paper?"

"Yeah, the stuff you put in presents."

"Maybe you put it in your presents; I never use the stuff." He made it sound as foul as any street drug talked about by a nun.

Jim groaned, but he couldn't help but smile at the same time. What the hell, it didn't matter; Christie was already going to be mad about her birthday, it didn't matter if there was tissue paper or not.

Two hours later, when Jim finally left, he realized Gray had never once brought up the fact that he couldn't see. Satisfying, that's what it was. Like he was finally getting his life back.

* * *

He could smell her. It smelled like fresh bubble bath permeating the apartment. "I'm home!" he called as he dropped his keys on the table by the door, surreptitiously moving his hand to sweep over the back of the table where he'd set the gift bag. It was gone.

"I'm headed to bed," Christie said lightly. She was in the kitchen.

Jim knelt down and took off Hank's harness. He wanted to say, Well? and get it over with. Well? What about the present? Did you like it? What about me forgetting your birthday? Am I in trouble or are we okay? "Okay. Good night," he said, not sure if she was still in the room or not.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Jim was sitting at his desk, his hand at his mouth, working out what he'd ask on this interview. It had to be good. He'd hate to have to cut the two families free if they actually knew something, but he wasn't about to keep them on if they were lying.

"Here's the address," Lt. Fisk said.

Jim listened to him tear a piece of paper out of a notebook.

"Jim?"

Jim looked up.

"The address."

Jim held up his hand and the lieutenant laid the paper there. He could feel his face getting red, something he could usually keep from happening. Karen took care of stuff like that. "Where's Karen?"

"I don't know," Fisk said, already walking away.

Jim hadn't noticed if Karen was there or not. He was slipping, needed to pay more attention.

He needed to find Karen so they could get going. Something about the case didn't sit right with him and he just wanted to get it over with.

He heard rustling from Marty's desk. "Hey, Marty, you seen Karen?"

It was still early, but Karen was usually there by then.

"Yep. She took one look at you and walked back out the door."

Jim nodded somberly. "Thanks for telling me." He stood up and headed for the locker room.

"Karen?"

"Nope," Tom said, "just me."

Jim turned to where the coffee pots were kept. "You seen her?" he asked.

Tom said, "Mhm," with what sounded like a mouthful of hot coffee. "Ooh, hot, but good." He blew out a breath. "Speaking of hot… I saw Karen last night with this friend of hers, and this friend, she's a piece, Jim. Honest, gorgeous, legs like—"

"Tom!" Jim laughed and held up a hand. "I thought you had a girlfriend."

"I do."

"Then what are you doing, talking like that?" Jim felt uncomfortable. He'd been down that road before. He didn't want to end up the wet blanket, father-figure type at the squad, but…

"A guy's gotta look."

"No." Jim shook his head. Pictures of Anne flashed through his mind. She'd been a work of art herself, not as gorgeous as Christie, but definitely more approachable, softer, smiled more— "No, Tom, don't even look. Trust me."

Tom laughed. "Yeah, that's what my girlfriend said before she stole my car keys and went and sat in the car pouting."

"Learn that lesson."

"It's blackmail. Girls do that to get flowers and stuff. I told her it was just Karen, and Karen's friend, what's her name, Anne something—"

Jim's ears started ringing so loudly he couldn't hear Tom anymore. Anne. That's right, Karen had told him they were friends. He'd been nervous at first that Karen would never be able to get over what he'd done, but she'd seemed to put it in his past and he'd nearly forgotten. Anne. Yeah, he'd thought the same things about her as Tom had just said.

He wondered if he'd ever seen Karen when he was out with Anne. They'd kept their relationship discreet—or, at least, he had—but a couple times they'd run into people she'd known. He might have actually met Karen before, but if she hadn't said anything then so he could recognize her voice now… It was a strange thought. He could meet people now that he'd been seeing for years and not recognize them.

Fleetingly, always the glutton for punishment, he thought of asking Karen if they'd ever met before. Women never forget meeting a guy who's wronged them or a wronged a friend. She'd be able to tell him when and where and what she was wearing and maybe he'd be able to remember what she looked like.

"She's into all this artsy stuff, and I don't do that scene," Tom was saying about his girlfriend, maybe justifying why he should be looking around to keep his options open.

Jim nodded. "Christie's like that, too."

"Does she have all these weird friends who come over looking like they just splatter-painted Times Squares?"

"No. They're more high class photographers and fashion models. Broadway."

"Ooh, tough. You gotta hang out with them?"

Jim smiled a little. "One thing these people don't do, Tom, is "hang out.""

Tom laughed. "Wine tastings. My girl's into wine tastings. I need a beer just thinking about it."

"Yeah, Christie did those for a while, too."

"Does it get any better?" Tom asked confidentially.

Jim blinked. "I don't know."

_

* * *

_

Karen called his cell a few minutes later to let him know she was almost there and he told her he'd meet her outside so they could get going. He didn't even ask why she'd been late, afraid he'd hear that she was hung over because she'd gone out last night, and then she'd have to bring up Anne and he'd find Anne still wasn't over it yet. He'd known Anne well enough during their short relationship to know she was the type to hold a grudge until the grave.

Jim waited right outside the front door until he heard Karen honk. "Right here," she called out her open window. Jim nudged Hank into the back of the car and climbed in. "Good morning!" she said.

"You're sure chipper," he commented.

"I overslept. A good night's sleep is amazing, you know? Your whole outlook on life gets all rosy—" She yawned, then pulled into traffic. "Where are we going?"

Jim pulled the paper out of his inside jacket pocket and handed it to her.

"Is that an 1875 or an 1825?" she asked.

"I don't know." He'd thought of having someone read him the address before leaving, but sometimes he took it for granted that, with Karen, he could get out of asking anyone else for help. If only his software could read handwritten notes he'd be in heaven.

"Seven. I think it's a seven." Karen mumbled when they got caught up in traffic.

"Sorry. I should have asked."

"Eh," she said noncommittally. It sounded like she shrugged, her coat brushing the seatbelt. "The boss has bad handwriting. Now you know."

Jim nodded. "Now I know." They drove in silence for a few minutes. Jim turned toward the window, running his fingers lightly over the cold glass. "What else don't I know?" he asked quietly.

Karen was quiet for a second. He could feel the car pulling into a parking spot. "We're here," she said and turned the car off.

"That I knew," Jim said, getting out. He let Hank out and the two followed Karen to the front door of an old tenement building.

"Looks like apartment 8A." Jim let the door slam shut behind him. Karen groaned. "That's gotta be on the eighth floor. No elevator. Come on."

Karen was huffing when she finally got up the stairs. Jim and Hank had taken the stairs two at a time and reached the top floor first.

"You must be in pretty good shape," Karen puffed.

Jim shrugged. "My legs are longer than yours."

"Right, you don't have to try to make me feel better." Karen took a deep breath, then knocked on a door.

Jim situated himself behind his panting partner. The door opened and they were ushered in. Hank's tail was wagging. Some he recognized was there.

"You're back," DeLana said.

Jim could hear arguing from another room, but it was muffled. Door must have been closed. "Yep. Can't keep us away…"

"Pretty crappy accommodations you got us."

Jim opened his mouth, but couldn't think of anything appropriate to say. Crappy? When it was heated, they had free food, weren't living on the street—

"Just joking, detective. You need to chill sometimes, you know?"

Jim tried to smile. "I guess I'm not very good at chilling."

The arguing had gotten louder and then the door flew open and words flooded the room. Jim's head snapped up in that direction.

"You gotta get us out of here!" Rico Artez was yelling.

"Mr. Artez, you need to lie down—"

"I can't just—my family is in trouble and you don't care!"

"No one knows where you are, you're in no danger," the second voice said reasonably.

"They know where we are. Police custody don't help. We been here too long, man."

Jim heard footsteps coming rapidly down a hallway then into the room.

"See? I'm an expert on telling people when they need to relax," DeLana said quietly as her brother burst into the room.

"See, _they_ know we're here. There's people all over here and you say no one knows we're here."

"We're the ones who put you here," Karen said.

"We can't talk here," Rico said, then disappeared into another part of the apartment.

"Doesn't sound like we're gonna learn much today," Karen said quietly to Jim.

"DeLana, could I talk to you for a minute?" Jim asked. He gestured for Hank to move to the right, the opposite direction than Rico had gone. Hank stopped a few feet over and Jim turned.

"What?" DeLana said when he didn't say anything right away.

Jim turned to her, forcing himself to stop listening as Artez yelled at an officer in another room. "You know, we can help you. I don't know what's going on, but—"

"Yeah," DeLana said, "you and what army?"

Jim faced her somberly and leaned forward a little. "If it's bad enough, we can get the army involved."

She laughed loudly. "You're sweet, detective, but like I told you, we don't know anything that can help you."

"If you know anything at all, that's more than we got."

"Nothing. Sorry." She started to move away, but Jim held out a hand.

"I know this is going to sound bad—" He froze as Rico yelled a string of expletives and said he was leaving if they didn't move his family. Jim closed his eyes a second to compose his thoughts. "Your brother, he's not paranoid or anything, is he? 'Cause we need to know."

"No," DeLana said, her voice a little icy, "he's not crazy. Why do people always think that because he's epileptic—"

Jim waved her off. "I'm not saying anything because he's epileptic. I'm saying because he's yelling at an officer to get him out of police custody and claims he may know something, which you say you don't. So, I want to know if one of you's been lying, or if one's just a little paranoid."

He heard her walk away and a second later Karen was at his side whispering, "That didn't go over so well, huh?"

"Let me talk to Artez."

"Let's just go. They're not going to tell us anything."

"I need to know for sure if he actually knows anything. Yesterday… He was a little out of it yesterday. You know, passing out like he did."

"Right, right. But if you ask me, they don't know anything."

"I'm keeping that in mind."

"Rico's in the kitchen. Go straight past the front door, doorway's to the right. He's sitting at the kitchen table, his head in his hands. Sister's with him," Karen quietly illustrated.

"Thanks."

"I'll stay here and talk to the girlfriend—she just came in from the bedroom."

Jim walked over to the kitchen. He listened briefly as Karen started talking to the girlfriend before turning his attention elsewhere. "Rico, I— DeLana, could we have a minute?" He heard footsteps leave the room. "Rico, I need to know what's going on. You tell us, we'll move you. You don't, I don't believe anything's going on, we let you go. We can't just move you around."

"Detective…"

Jim realized the man was crying and his mouth nearly dropped. Artez was a big man, prone to anger and yelling. Crying seemed against his nature.

"They'll kill the girls. We've been here too long. You let us go, they'll think we talked and I wasn't gonna, yesterday. I just thought it would get us out of there, get them some food. I wasn't thinking straight. Scrambled brains, that's what it feels like after an episode."

"Who's threatening to kill who, and does this have anything to do with the dead guy we found on the stairs yesterday?"

"No." He took a breath and sniffled. "I can't tell you anything. Sorry."

"You know, we deal with death threats all the time. That's what the police are for. If it makes you feel any better, that's usually all they are, threats."

"Yeah, detective, great, thanks, so much better." Rico pushed back the chair and it grated against the linoleum. "We're dealing with someone who's ever "just threatened." He's probably already poisoned the drinking water here."

"Do you realize how difficult it is to poison the water that comes through the pipes from the city plant? Especially just the water to one apartment?"

"Doesn't matter. Then he'd do something else."

"Does this have anything to do with the man we found yesterday?"

"You tell me, detective. You ever known someone's life to be threatened, and you find a dead body at the same place, and it's just a coincidence?"

"At this point, if you don't give us some more information, we can't help you. Then I'll have to label it a coincidence, yeah."

"Yeah, I thought so."

"I can only have faith if you give us some back."

"And all I've been getting is sht, so that's what I'm giving back."

Jim turned around and walked back out the door.

"Anything?" Karen asked.

"Nothing." He paused. "Hey, let's go talk to the kids."

"'Kay."

"Two kids, right? 'Cause the other two are too young."

"Yeah, you want them both?"

"Let's see if we can talk to them at the same time. They might feel more comfortable. Where's DeLana?"

"I'm standing right behind you, detective. You think I'd let you out of my sight?"

Jim didn't turn. "Where's your kids?"

"They don't know nothin'."

"We'll see about that."

"You probably shouldn't use that phrase, detective," DeLana said snottily.

"I'll keep that in mind, thanks. Where's your kids?"

"Bedroom. You want me to show you?"

"I want you to stay here. Karen?"

Hank and Jim followed Karen to the hallway where the one bedroom was located next to the bathroom.

"They got a playpen for the babies." Karen led Jim to the one bed so he could sit down and be on the same level with the kids.

"Hi," Jim said awkwardly. Kids were often quiet around cops, which didn't help him much. The silence was so thick he was sure they were holding their breath, even the babies.

Something landed near his foot and an evil baby laugh burst out from the playpen near the window.

"Don't do that," one of the girls reprimanded. The eldest, the nine-year-old whose name he couldn't recall. She swooped down and picked up the errant toy.

"What's your name?" Jim asked while he listened to her bustle around the room.

"Tamika. I'm nine. I take care of the kids while Mom's busy."

Jim nodded. "I'm Jim."

"Momma told us never to call grown-ups by their first names. Makes ya'll think you're too close to us kids, like we're friends or something, and bad things happen then."

"Oh."

"I remember you from yesterday."

"Yeah, about—"

"But you wouldn't remember me, 'cause'n I didn't say nothin' the whole time." She sounded a little smug, but clever like her mother.

"About yesterday," Jim said patiently.

She turned away with a hmmph. "I don't know nothin' about yesterday."

Karen sighed. She'd moved toward the window.

Jim heard something land by his feet again.

"Up! Pick up!" a little voice cried.

Jim leaned forward and ran his hand along the floor, ending up clutching a stuffed animal that rattled when he lifted it.

"Gimme! Gimme!"

"I got it," Tamika said bossily.

Jim frowned. He didn't want a nine-year-old feeling superior, thinking he couldn't even pick up a few toys. "I got it." He stood up and slowly crossed to the playpen. Karen didn't give any clues as to if the way was clear, so he proceeded cautiously. "What's the baby's name?"

"My baby sister's name's Cindy."

Jim smiled, remembering. "Right, Cindy."

"Don't laugh! She can't help her name."

"Who named her?" Jim asked nonchalantly, putting his hand into open space, holding the toy above the playpen. It was snatched with a squeal.

"Uncle Josiah."

"It's a good name, Cindy." Something pushed against Jim's legs.

"DeWanda, stop! Go play!"

"Why'd your uncle name her that?"

Jim listened as she ran around the room, chasing a squealing child who must have been the four-year-old, DeWanda. "He's not my uncle," she said as she jumped up on the bed. "That's just what we call him. Us'ly with grown-ups, we gotta call 'em Mr. Dunbar, but he's just Uncle Josiah."

Jim nodded, turning as the two children brushed in front of him, then ran back toward the door. Something warm and wet and sticky latched on to one of his fingers as his hand passed over the playpen. He squatted down next to the two imprisoned youngsters. "Is Uncle Josiah gonna help your mom?"

"I dunno." It sounded like Tamika had just wrestled her younger sister to the bed and was sitting on her, contemplating the question while the younger one squealed and whined, the sounds muffled.

Jim blinked and pulled his hand back as his sunglasses were swiped from his face. Another sticky hand had left a smear of something on his temple. He reached up, rubbed his fingers over it, sniffed. "You like grape jelly?" he asked the baby with the evil laugh.

"Yup," the two-year-old said.

Karen was laughing.

"Is Uncle Josiah nice to you?" Jim asked, trying to stay on track and not get distracted.

"I dunno." Tamika jumped off the bed and busied herself.

"You don't?"

"I don't remember him. I don't get to see him anymore. But Cindy does still. I gotta stay back and watch DeWanda us'ly." It sounded like she started picking up around the playpen, bending, straightening up, dropping objects into the pen. "And Clem gets to go, too."

"Who's Clem?"

"Short for Clement. We wanted to name him Sharise, but he was a boy. That's why Uncle Rico can't marry Candy."

"Why?"

"'Cause Clem's a boy."

"So? What's that got to do with anything?"

"I don't know. DeWanda! Sit still."

Jim felt something brush past him and he sat on the floor so he wouldn't be knocked over.

"Here," a little voice said nearby.

"She's got your sunglasses for you," Tamika explained.

"Oh." Jim held his hand out. "Thanks." They were sticky, so he put them in the inner pocket of his jacket, next to his cane. "You must be DeWanda?"

"Yeah," the four-year-old said shyly.

"She can't talk to you," Tamika said. Jim heard the older sister pull the younger one away.

"Why not?"

"'Cause."

Jim sighed. "You're a lot like your mom, you know that?"

"Yep."

"What's your dad like?"

"I dunno."

"You've never met him?"

"Nope. I don't think so… Maybe I did. Maybe Momma just didn't tell me who he was and I see him all the time and he's real proud of me. Or maybe he died. Took too many drugs, or died in a car crash and there was lots of fire and it exploded and—"

"Okay, okay, I get the point. Your mom never told you anything about him?"

"Nope."

"Is he DeWanda's dad, too?"

"I dunno."

"What about Cindy? You woulda been about six. Do you remember who your mom was seeing then?"

"I don't like the guys Momma dates. Don't tell her that."

"Was your Momma dating the guy we found on the stairs?"

"Eew!" she squealed. "They said he was dead."

"He wasn't always dead. Was she seeing him before?"

"No," she said belligerently.

"Tamika, you know, I gotta ask you guys about what we found yesterday. And if any of you know anything, then we can help."

Her little attitude pricked up and Jim imagined Tamika standing there with her hands on her hips. "And what's a four-year-old gonna know about a dead body? She thought he was just sleeping."

"What about you? Would you know anything?"

There was a knock on the door. "Detectives?" an officer asked. "The girlfriend just left. She said she had things to do and she just left."

Jim nearly swore aloud. He hadn't talked to the girlfriend yet himself. "Is she coming back?" he asked. The stuffed toy hit him in the head when he turned away from the playpen, but he ignored it and stood. "Thanks for talking to us," he said to Tamika, then called Hank over and left the bedroom.

"I don't know where she went or if she's coming back."

"Maybe we can catch her."

A hand caught his arm and he stopped without turning.

"I'll give you a little of that faith you were talking about," Artez said. The man sounded extremely nervous, like he was looking over his shoulder even in the tiny apartment. "Look into a man named Pipsqueak. Street name, that's all I can give you. Now get us out of here."

"Momma!" Tamika yelled from the bedroom. "Clem just dumped the bubble bath on Cindy!"

"What about your girlfriend?"

"She ain't ever coming back. I didn't think she'd go, but…"

"And I talked the whole time," Tamika yelled, "and I didn't tell him nothin' and I didn't let DeWanda talk at all neither!" She sounded proud.

Jim nodded. "We'll look into it. Karen? Let's see if we can find the girlfriend. What was her name again?"

"Samantha. That was her name," Artez said, sounding sad.

Jim and Karen and Hank took the stairs quickly downward. Jim couldn't hear any footsteps below and knew the chances of them catching Samantha were slim, but he had to try. He nearly stumbled, moving too quickly, and slowed down, taking hold of the railing.

"You're going to move them?" Karen asked, out of breath when they hit the landing. "All because of a street name?"

Jim nodded. "Mostly because the kids, at least, knew there was a person on the stairs, even if they did think he was just sleeping." They left the building and Jim kept a hand on Karen's shoulder while she surveyed the street up and down, ready to move with her if she saw anything.

"Nothing," she said after a moment. "Let's drive up and down a couple blocks. If she's on foot, we might find her."

_

* * *

_

"I never got to talk to the girlfriend," Jim said as he settled into the front seat of Karen's car.

"So think optimistically and maybe we'll find her."

"Tell me about her."

"Five-three, kinda pale—"

"Like, what'd you two talk about?"

"Nothing much."

"No insight into the case?"

"Like I said, I don't know what these people know, but I'd be willing to bet it doesn't have anything to do with our DOA."

"Except the kids knew he was there. Wouldn't you guess the parents would, too?"

"Yeah, I would. And I think they didn't have a phone and they'd found a nice dry place to stay and they didn't want to screw it up by bring cops all over the place."

"You'd stay there? With the body?"

"I don't know. If the door was closed, maybe."

"Yeah, but, there's a dead body, Karen."

"Squeamish, Jim?" Karen laughed. "It's not a zombie. It might start smelling a little, but it's just a body. Maybe it was even dead before they got there."

Jim was stunned. "Karen?" It just didn't sound like her. Or maybe it did; she was always trying to prove that women were as sick and depraved and homicidal as men.

"As long as I don't have to see the guy die… And we're saying I'm cold and hungry and homeless and I can't get a job."

"That doesn't mean you're just gonna be able to overlook a dead body, though. And you've got kids. And this guy died. And if he died, that means the place isn't all that safe for your kids, right? 'Cause whoever killed him could come back."

"You're babbling, Jim."

"I'm just trying to figure it out."

"Is this what your brain sounds like when you're thinking and go all comatose on us? 'Cause if it is, it's probably best you don't think out loud too often."

Jim set his lips and looked away. "I just can't figure out how DeLana could overlook a dead body—I mean, she's not some stupid drugged-up mom."

"So maybe she really didn't know. Maybe Artez knew and was keeping it from everyone else so they wouldn't freak."

"Maybe."

"I don't see her. Should we head back?"

"Yeah. But Karen, what did you and Samantha talk about?"

Karen made a noise that Jim equated with her blushing. "Today she asked me about birth control and planned parenthood."

Jim smiled. "Anything else?"

"Geez, Jim, don't you trust me? I know how to do an interview."

"I trust you. I just feel like I'm missing something and I wish I knew what it was."

Karen took a deep breath. "She didn't want a boy. She said she couldn't have another one. I thought she meant she didn't want more kids, but after talking to the girl, I wonder if she's not looking for a way to just not have any more boys."

"And yesterday?"

"I asked her about the guy and she started talking about a sale at Bloomingdales and she was all wistful about not being able to go there anymore."

"No problems with her and Artez? 'Cause she could always get a job or another boyfriend who has a job…"

"Didn't seem like it. She was kinda out of it, so I didn't push."

"Drugs?"

"Not that I could tell."

Jim rubbed a hand over his mouth.

"What else?"

"What else? There's nothing else."

"Nothing? We have someone who's just abandoned her baby and wandered off even though her life may be in danger. And you just talked to her."

"She didn't say anything about leaving. She wanted me to join her church, even wrote the address in my notebook. And just so you know, the church is right down the street from my apartment, and it's been closed for years, okay? I think it might be on the city's condemned list.

"She wanted to know if my cell phone takes pictures, which it doesn't, by the way. She wanted to know where I got my jacket. If you need to know, I got it on-line. She told me her dad died when she was two. She told me she's not sure Rico's the father of her baby. She wanted to name the baby Inclement because he didn't sleep for the first month. Oh, and she wanted me to know that if the world ended, it was all her fault."

Jim was silent for a few minutes mulling it all over. "Great."

"Certifiable."

"Doubly great."

Karen parked the car and got out. Jim let Hank out of the car, his hand brushing over the dog. He wrinkled his nose; Hank's head was covered in what felt suspiciously like grape jelly.

_

* * *

_

"Hey, Dunbar," Marty said with a snicker, "what'd you have for breakfast?"

"Jim, you get beaned by Bozo the Clown on the way back?" Tom asked, laughing.

"You know your head's a funny shape, but your mouth didn't move."

"Is that ectoplasm?" Tom started humming the theme song to Ghostbusters. ""Who you gonna call?" Jim Dunbar," he sang.

"Singing?" Fisk asked, stepping into the squad room. "Jim," he said, sounding surprised. He stopped walking. "Did you fall in a dumpster?" he asked worriedly.

Jim ignored them and pulled off his coat.

"Uh, Jim, you got something in your hair there," Marty said, leaning back in his chair so it squeaked.

"Yeah, Marty, I know." He listened as Karen walked up. No one commented on her appearance, so he wondered how she'd managed to stay jelly-free.

"Karen, how'd the interview go?"

"Eh, interesting, but we didn't learn much."

"Interesting?" Marty spat out. "Looking at Dunbar, that must have been one hell of an interview."

Jim let a hand stray to his head and found he'd missed a huge glob of jelly. He left the glob, not having anything to clean it with and wiped his hand on his pants. He sat on the edge of his desk. "We got a name to check. Pipsqueak."

Marty snickered.

"I'll check it out," Tom said and laughed.

"It's hard to take you seriously right now, Dunbar," Marty said.

"Pipsqueak? You're not making that up, are you? Send me off on a wild goose chase?" Tom asked.

"Guys," Karen reprimanded.

"Yeah, but _what happened_?" Fisk asked.

"It was an interview, nothing out of the ordinary," Jim said with a straight face.

"You got slimed, man," Tom said.

Jim grabbed his coat. "I'm going to lunch."

"You're already a side dish."

"I'm gonna stop at home and shower, if that's okay, boss?"

"Please, Jim," Fisk said.

_

* * *

_

Jim was cautious walking back into the squad room after lunch. He let Hank walk off ahead like usual, but lunchtime was often hectic in the squad, people coming and going. People had a tendency to leave things lying around. Just the other day he'd tripped over a box the postal service had left.

It was quiet, as most everyone was still at lunch. Marty wasn't there, he could just tell. And Tom had driven out to check on the witnesses, wherever they were being moved.

Jim had just turned his back on Karen's desk when he heard a rustle from over there, then a small shriek. Jim froze, then straightened and turned quickly in a defensive fighting stance.

"Karen?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said, breathing a little harder than usual.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing. A, uh, spider. It's kinda big."

Jim dropped his hands, though his fists were still clenched. He almost smiled, but he knew better from years of dealing with Christie. Christie was spider-phobic, too. He'd learned that everyone was scared of something; it wasn't something they could help. Involuntary reactions.

"It just surprised me, that's all," she said. She was still standing a few feet away from her desk.

"Do you need me to take care of it?" Jim asked.

"Don't patronize me," Karen snapped.

"I'm not. Just offering." Karen was quiet. She didn't snap, "well, don't," like he expected her to.

"I don't _need_ you to take care of anything," she finally said.

Jim shrugged. "Okay. I'm just designated Spider Disposer at home."

"Fine, dispose of it."

"Just tell me where it is and I'll squish it."

"Take it out, okay?"

"Out?"

"Outside."

"You want me to squish it outside?"

"No, I want you to take it outside."

"You catch it, I promise I'll take it outside."

"You can't catch it?"

"What's the matter, Karen, you scared to kill something?" Marty asked, walking up.

"Not likely," Jim told Karen, ignoring Marty. "It's a little easier to just kill it."

"Really, Jim, is it?" Marty asked snidely.

"What's the matter, Marty, you never kill anything before?" Jim asked.

"I don't need you to stick up for me, Jim," Karen said quietly.

"Well, we all know you've killed someone before, Jim," Marty said.

Jim bit his lip. He hadn't been thinking of the bank.

"So tell me, Jim," Marty said, sitting down. His chair squeaked and his voice moved lower. Jim moved his gaze down and clenched his fists like he was ready for a fight. "If that was a perp… It's just easier to kill it, huh? Why bother taking it into custody?"

Jim turned away. "It's a little different, Marty. Perps make noise, spiders don't."

"Do they? Do they really, Jim? What kind of noise does a perp make?"

Jim sat down and ignored the condescending attitude. He wasn't going to stoop to Marty's level.

Thud! echoed through the squad, the sound of a high heeled shoe slammed against a desk, then dropped back on the floor.

"There, are you two satisfied now?" Karen asked.

_

* * *

_

He'd never told Dr. Galloway specifically what was wrong with his marriage. Heck, he wasn't sure he knew for sure himself. But the good Doctor was aware that it was less than sunny side up.

"Hey, Doc, can I ask you something confidentially?"

Jim heard the other man shift in his chair before answering. "You know, Jim, everything you say here is confidential."

Jim couldn't help but smile. They'd been through that before. "Right, right. I guess I meant something personal. Not job-related."

"You can ask anything. But you know you might not always get the answer you want."

"Are you turning Buddhist on me, Doc?"

Dr. Galloway chuckled. "I learned from a lot of different people. What's your question?"

Jim shifted uncomfortably and grabbed both arms of the chair to keep himself from bolting. It seemed like a huge chair, like the one in the old Memorex commercial where the guy gets blown away. "It's about my wife…"

"Okay."

"Her birthday was a couple weeks ago…"

"Okay."

"And I forgot."

Silence.

"I got her a present, so everything's taken care of—bad choice of words." Jim shook his head. "It's not all taken care of. Doc, why hasn't she said anything? What would make a woman just not say anything either way?"

"Did you give it to her personally?"

Jim shifted awkwardly. "Well, no. She wasn't home…" He didn't say he was almost glad there hadn't been a confrontation that night, even if the waiting was killing him.

"So you didn't say anything to her about forgetting her birthday?"

"No…"

"Why do you think she should say anything?"

"Because it's her birthday!"

"So it's her responsibility?"

Jim kept his gaze averted. Even if he couldn't see, he still couldn't attempt eye contact when he was under scrutiny. "I just want to know why she hasn't said anything. I thought you might be able to explain women to me, Doc."

Doctor Galloway chuckled. "No one can do that, Jim. Not even me."

Jim's head snapped up. "Why hasn't she yelled at me yet?"

"Jim." It sounded like the doctor was leaning forward. "Is it her responsibility to ruin the very thought of her own birthday with a fight? Do you want her to yell at you?"

"No."

"Do you think she wants to yell at you?"

Jim had to think about that.

"You've put her in an awkward position. If she says anything now, it's up to her to bring it up, to set the tone of the conversation. If she's angry, will you get mad at her for sounding angry? If she's forgiving, will you just forget this and not learn from it?"

Jim hung his head.

"And from what you've told me, whatever happened between you two before, she might not want to bring that up. But if she brings this up…"

"She'll have to bring everything else up."

"Are you ready for that?"

Jim thought it over and let out a low whistle. "It would be one hell of a fight."

_

* * *

_

"You know what's strange," Jim had told Galloway before leaving his appointment, "I've started questioning if I've ever loved my wife. Ever, even before."

"Have you ever questioned that—ever, even before?"

Jim was quiet for a moment and rubbed his eye with the back of his hand. He usually didn't wear the sunglasses around Galloway—he was finding it was better not to try to hide anything from the man. "Yeah, I did, before I got shot…" That had been a rough time, before he got shot—rough for him and Christie, and for guilt over what he had done. Christie was the perfect wife—why question his ability to love her?

"Look at it this way, Jim… Maybe you're right back where you started from. You're yourself again."

Jim had left then, not sure how he felt about that.

He was sure of one thing now—he didn't want to be the man he had been before. Like he'd told Karen, he'd done a lot of growing up since then, or so he liked to think. And before he saw Christie again, he'd better figure out how he did feel. He headed to Morrissey's instead of home.

"Hey, Jim! Be with you in a minute," Gray called when Jim walked in the door.

Jim nudged Hank in the direction of the counter to find an empty barstool. The place sounded like it was hopping with the after-work crowd. The voices wrapped around him, but there were too many for him to pick out a single conversation. The perfect atmosphere for thinking.

Apparently the end stool by the door wasn't the most popular place to sit because it was empty again. To Jim it was a great place to sit—out of the way, just a place to drink and think. Before, he probably wouldn't have liked to be so far from all the action, but now…

Yeah, he'd changed. Hopefully for the better. Hopefully he'd grown up. And he loved Christie, right?

"The usual?" he heard muffled nearby, but sometimes he had trouble pulling himself out of his reverie, figuring out if someone was speaking to him or not. "Uh, Jim? The usual?" Gray repeated.

Jim looked up. "Yeah." He heard a clunk immediately in front of him and thought Gray must have already gotten the beer before thinking he should ask. That was the trouble with no longer being a regular. He reached out and felt the bottle already beginning to sweat. "Thanks."

There was no reply and Jim figured Gray was off helping someone else. Probably for the best—what he couldn't confide in Galloway he wasn't likely to share with the guys at the bar.

He wondered if the guys were still there, same as always. Just maybe too scared to come up and say something. He shook his head a little. He wasn't going to worry about it. That was their problem; Christie was his.

He didn't think she wanted to fight with him. She wanted him to talk to her—he'd never been very good at that, she shouldn't expect him to change. She wanted to help him—he'd never been good at accepting help, he didn't want to change. It was probably her maternal instinct coming out. But he'd always been the one to take care of her; he couldn't accept the reverse. He wanted to take care of her like always and feel useful.

Maybe she wants the same thing? a voice in his head asked. The voice sounded suspiciously like Doctor Galloway. They must be spending way too much time together if Jim could predict what he would say to every thought in his head.

What, Doc? She wants me to take care of her like usual? Or she wants to take my role, take care of me and feel useful?

Maybe both.

She can't have it both ways!

Jim downed his beer and pushed the empty bottle to the end of the bar so Gray could take care of it when he got a chance. There was anger bubbling up with the beer. And Christie wasn't even there, these weren't really her thoughts—he was projecting his own feelings about her, as Galloway would have told him.

He heard another beer bottle thunk on the counter and reached out.

Even if Christie did want to take care of him, was that so wrong? He only had a problem with it because he was stubborn and independent to a fault.

He wondered if Karen felt that way about him, if she got frustrated because he hated asking for help. Or maybe if she got frustrated because sometimes he needed more help… Did he take advantage of Karen?

Would it kill him to let Christie help him?

What if he didn't need help?

Had he been feeling bitter toward her lately because they couldn't go out and do the things they used to? Is that why he was thinking they'd never had anything in common, thinking he'd never enjoyed going out to the opera and to classy clubs? It was hard for him to mingle now. Like in this bar, he had no idea who was around. Marty could have been there. Or Terry. Or Anne. And even if he'd wandered around saying 'how's it going' to everyone, he'd never know they were there if they didn't answer. He hated that.

Christie was just trying to bring him up in the world, getting him to go places outside of his comfort zone. He wouldn't have minded going to the opera with her, broadening his horizons, snuggling close… But if there'd been a party afterward… It was the damn mingling—he needed to rely on her to tell him who was around, interject him into conversations. He didn't want to have to rely on her just to hang out at a bar with his friends!

Clay Simmon's party had been plaguing him lately. She thought that was normal. That was one of the things he'd always hated, all those stuffy people, trying to talk to them. Before he'd been blind, he would have relished any excuse to hang back at the side and just watch. But he'd been the dutiful husband and made the rounds, simpering to the people Christie wanted to get in good with.

She couldn't show him off as well now. He wasn't perfect anymore. And so she'd just left him instead of taking him with.

Hell, that wasn't right. He'd never been perfect. Sure, he was probably harder to show off now, yeah, but he hadn't told her the problem he had socializing, hadn't asked her to help.

He couldn't ask her for help. He could ask for help from almost anyone except Christie.

Jim sighed and slumped over the bar.

"Drunk already?" Gray asked good-naturedly.

Jim looked up, surprised that anyone was around. He laughed when he realized he could tune out a whole bar and not even notice.

"You looked kinda scary there for a while."

"Did I scare away some customers?"

"No more than usual. Anything wrong?"

"Nah, just trying to decide whether or not I hate my wife."

"Ah," Gray said wisely. "You know, there's a little love and hate in every marriage. I think you always hate your wife. Just keep in mind, it's more fun to concentrate on the nice stuff."

Jim nodded. "That's wise. Very wise."

"Yeah, I know."

Jim laughed.

"I've been standing here for years, listening to people. That's the best advice I've got."

"You got anything else?"

"Yeah. Don't step in front of a bus."

_

* * *

_

Jim's nightmares often included killing the gunman at the bank. At first he'd thought the scene replayed over and over night after night because that had been the last time he'd ever seen anything. Traumatic, yes, but he wasn't sure the loss of his sight compared with the new theory that had started to plague him.

He'd killed a man. Every night, in his dreams, he killed him again. And again.

It hadn't been like the Gulf, when they hadn't been able to see the enemy up close most of the time. This had been a man, standing twenty feet away. And even though the gunman had been shooting at anything that moved, had even shot a couple other cops, Jim found himself shooting straight into the bulletproof vest. Why? Because he hadn't wanted to kill the guy? Had he believed they'd actually be able to take him alive? It was obvious he didn't plan to let himself be arrested. The only thing to do was shoot him in the head, not waste all those bullets.

Not cost two other cops their lives while he played at shooting a bulletproof vest. You can't do that—that's why they're bulletproof.

He'd finally killed the gunman, though he barely remembered doing so. He knew he had, he'd taken a life. Even if he'd had to, even if he barely remembered, it didn't sit well with him.

And maybe it was partly his fault the other officers had died.

Maybe that's why the nightmares came.

Jim was lying awake in bed. He'd almost been asleep, lying there, replaying the day, trying to add pictures to what he hadn't been able to see, waiting for Christie to come home from wherever she was. That's when the conversation about killing the spider popped back into his head and his eyes had popped back open. He felt guilty now, making Karen kill that spider.

And at the bank, maybe he'd wanted to give the guy a fighting chance. Or maybe he'd just hoped someone else would step up and kill him so Jim wouldn't have to, wouldn't have to watch him die, wouldn't have to feel any guilt.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Jim sat at the kitchen table, the coffee in front of him already cold, his elbows on the table, hands clasped. He made them into a temple and concentrated through the blindness. If he concentrated hard enough, maybe he could will himself to see. That had been the initial plan when he was in the hospital. It had never worked, but sometimes he still had to test the theory. He felt so locked in, he just wanted to break out. He wanted a change of scene.

"You keep doing that, you're going to drive yourself crazy."

Jim let his hands drop so fast he nearly upset his coffee mug. He clenched one fist on either side of the cup. "Morning," he said. He hadn't heard Christie get up.

"Morning." Her smell wafted over and he turned his head. Something expensive and obviously manufactured—no natural smells for his wife. She kissed his cheek.

It was the same every morning. Jim was afraid to break the spell; they were co-existing so peacefully without fighting. Maybe it really wasn't fair to her to ruin her birthday by bringing up the fact that he'd forgotten it. He could wallow in his own guilt and never say anything, and things could go on just like they were.

"Where were you last night?"

Jim furrowed his brow, following her footsteps as she moved around the kitchen. He leaned back. "I could ask you the same thing."

"I came home after work to let you know we'd been invited out to dinner. So I went without you."

Jim nodded. She could have called his cell phone, if she'd really wanted him to come. "I stopped by Morrissey's… I wanted to know if any of the old guys were still going there."

"Are they?"

Jim shrugged. "I dunno." There was silence. She was waiting for him to explain, but he couldn't. In the light of day, even if he couldn't see it, thoughts of the old group were even more distracting. He didn't want to admit to Christie that, if they were still around, the only person who would still talk to him was the bartender. He bit his lip; he didn't want to admit that to himself. "How was dinner?" He got up to dump out his coffee, half listening, half thinking. He definitely wasn't the same man if he could walk into a bar without people jumping up to come talk to him.

_

* * *

_

Guffawing wasn't a sound you usually heard around a bunch of homicide detectives, but that's the first thing Jim heard when he got off the elevator. The sound quieted to muffled snickers as he got closer. Marty and Tom, and even a few snorts from Fisk. Someone coughed and someone else laughed harder. Jim ignored them and headed for his desk. They could laugh at him all they wanted. He didn't even want to know what it was about—he probably wouldn't like the answer.

He dropped off his laptop then headed for the locker room. Behind him everyone started talking at once.

"Hey, Jim," Marty said later, leaning over in his chair, "my wife and I are going out of town this weekend—"

"Good for you," Jim interrupted. He didn't want to know where this was going. Things had quieted down when he got back from his locker, but maybe that had just been to lull him into a false sense of security.

"We were wondering if you could baby-sit. Play a few games, make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich…"

Tom snorted.

Hank sneezed, but Jim swore even that sounded like a dry laugh. He tried to smile himself. "So you wheedled the story out of Karen, huh?"

"Wheedling wasn't necessary. She came running in early this morning going, "Guys, guys, I just have to tell you about everything before Dunbar gets here.""

"Sounds just like her," Jim said.

"Come on, Marty," Karen said. She sounded embarrassed.

"Karen," Jim said, spinning his chair toward her, "I've been curious, what were you doing the whole time I was getting mauled by toddlers?"

"Laughing," Karen said with a grin. "And watching the sidewalk," she said more seriously. "I dunno, but I had a weird feeling."

"You see anything? Like anyone who might have taken Samantha? Waiting for her?"

"I'm not sure. We were eight floors up, but there were some people just hanging around down there. I wanted to make sure there was no trouble."

"And leaving Dunbar to deal with some slimy kids on his own was incentive, right?" Tom said.

Karen laughed.

"Guys," Jim complained.

"Oh, Jim, you should have seen it." Karen snorted.

"That's unladylike, Karen," Jim teased.

Karen snorted again. "I can't help it. It was like we were walking into an ambush."

"You ever been in an ambush, Karen?" Jim asked.

"No…"

"I have."

"Oh. Sorry." She sounded uncomfortable.

Jim grinned. "Just kidding."

"You can't listen to him about anything that happened during the Gulf," Tom said.

"Got it," Karen said. But she'd sobered up and Jim could hear her typing at her computer again. It was quiet for a minute before Karen laughed and the mirth returned to the squad.

Jim smiled finally and gave in. "Okay, tell me the story." He hadn't wanted to hear her version; he'd been there himself. It worried him to think of just how ignorant he might be, finding out how little he could actually observe, how much he was missing. He didn't want to know.

"Jim, the little girl that took your sunglasses—first she stuck her hand in the jar of jelly, like she knew what she was doing. She took off your glasses and while she smeared your face, she dropped a big glop on your head."

Jim wrinkled his nose and found one hand traveling to the top of his head to make sure all the jelly was gone. "Yeah, Karen, I was there."

"She was throwing jelly at Hank, too. He kept eating it."

Jim groaned. "Hank," he admonished. "So much for being well-behaved."

Hank licked his lips. He didn't often get treats—he was on a strict diet to keep him fit for duty. But oh, he sure liked that Cindy kid. And that jelly. Hank found he was drooling like a dog.

"And she put your glasses in the jelly jar."

"Good to know." He reached up and straightened his sunglasses. It had taken a good soaking before they'd been safe to wear again. He'd felt naked the day before, coming back to work without his sunglasses.

"I guess it wasn't as funny when you lived it?" Karen asked.

"Karen, I've been beaten by perps. I've been shot. I've been threatened and pushed around. And nothing compares to being accosted by four sticky children while your partner daydreams out the window."

"Sorry."

Jim grinned. "You're supposed to be watching my back."

"I did! Trust me, they didn't get any on your back."

Jim rolled his eyes. "Stop smirking."

"I'm not," Karen protested.

"You are, too," Marty said.

"He doesn't need to know that," Karen whispered.

Jim grinned. He already knew.

_

* * *

_

"Hey, Marty," Jim asked suddenly.

"Just a second," Marty mumbled.

Jim waited patiently. He vaguely wondered what the other detectives were doing. It was part of his nature as a cop to be observant. Marty and Karen were both quiet, but the squad room was loud enough with other people talking that it masked the quiet tell-tale noises of pens scribbling on paper and mouse buttons clicking. Tom had been on the phone for an hour trying to dig up information about someone named Pipsqueak. Jim could tell by the sound of his voice and the questions he was asking that he was getting exasperated. He was tapping a pen on the desk, getting louder and more staccato with every phone call.

Hank was snoring. He slept a lot during the day and had extra energy at night, more energy to play havoc on the apartment and drive Christie crazy.

Hank was dreaming. He was with a dog he'd met back during school for guide dog training. Her name was Sonja. Woof.

"Hank." Jim touched the sleeping dog.

Hank felt a hand on his side, heard his master's voice and struggled out of sleep. He sat up, ready for battle.

"You have to sleep more quietly, bud," Jim said and scratched Hank between the ears.

Hank bit back angry thoughts. This was Jim, the dog food guy. He didn't deserve to lose a few fingers. But it had been such a nice dream.

He whined, trapped by indecision. Killer instinct or good dog?

"It's okay," Jim said. He scratched Hank's head.

Yeah, you'd think that, Hank thought, lying back down. But if you'd ever met a girl like Sonja instead of the one you did…

Tom was wheedling, cajoling, swearing intermittently. The phone call wasn't going well. It sounded like Karen threw something at him because he pulled the phone away after a clattering sound and explained how this was the best way to get information.

"Yeah?" Marty asked, spinning his chair around.

Jim blinked and pulled himself out of observation mode. "You're a pretty good judge of character…"

"Don't flatter me so much, Jim."

"What'd you think about those two families?"

Marty made a noncommittal noise. "They weren't much help, if you ask me."

Jim nodded. "Karen said the same thing."

"But you got some info out of them."

"I got lucky. Did they tell you anything at all? Or talk about anything out of the ordinary?"

Marty was quiet for a minute.

"Careful, Marty," Karen warned, "he's in brain-picking mode."

"What'd you think of Rico Artez?" Jim asked.

"I thought he was a pain in the ass."

"Do you think he knows anything?"

"About our DOA? I don't think he knew the guy and I don't think he knew who killed him, either. Just scared. I bet he knew the guy was there, but that's about it. Not enough for you to be taking care of his family."

"What about the sister and the girlfriend?"

"They didn't say much."

"Jim," Karen warned, "stop giving us that 'you're no help' look."

Jim turned away and frowned. "Sorry."

"Look, Jim," Marty leaned forward, "sometimes you just have to accept that there are no clues."

"I'm not giving up, Marty," Jim said without turning to face him.

"I'm not asking you to. I'm just saying you might need to stop digging here and start looking somewhere else."

Jim nodded. Those were always the tough calls. When to give up, when to look elsewhere, and where to look when they did. If Artez and his sister didn't pan out, then what? If they never found out who the DOA was, they'd never have any other clues.

"Karen, maybe we should check into Uncle Josiah."

"What, you think he might know something?"

"Nah, let's check just for fun," Jim said with a grin. "If nothing else, maybe he can help. Maybe he can take the kids in while Artez finds a job. It would give them someplace to sleep."

"Hey," Fisk said from his doorway. "Coroner just called. Unconfirmed substance in our DOA's blood."

"Unconfirmed?" Karen asked, beating Jim to the question.

"Yeah. They found a trace of something early on, but wanted to be sure. They can't lock it down."

"So it's not alcohol or a common street drug?" Marty asked.

"Doesn't look like it. Could be a combination of things, but they can't isolate enough of it to be sure."

"So if it's not something normally found in the body, they think it was ingested?" Jim asked.

"Yeah."

"Purposefully or accidentally? Or maybe someone slipped him something?"

"Can't tell."

"But they've ruled out the gunshot wound as cause of death?"

"Pretty much. It could have exacerbated the condition of the drug. But they said the wound looked more like it was just for show."

_

* * *

_

It was Karen's idea to go back to the crime scene. Jim had been surprised because she usually didn't ask for a re-canvas.

"You're rubbing off on me," Karen said as she slammed her car door. "I just think we may have missed something."

"I hope so," Jim said. He settled into the passenger seat. If they hadn't missed anything, they were getting to that point where they'd just have to close the case for insufficient evidence. Those cases always hurt. He at least wanted to identify the DOA so it wouldn't just end up a John Doe with no family, hopefully the family could be notified and move on with their lives.

"I don't know," Karen said as they pulled up to the old mansion. "You and I looked it over so thoroughly before…"

"Now there's no one around. Maybe we'll be able to see something without tripping over anyone." Jim let Hank out of the back seat and followed Karen.

"I'm just glad I'm not the blind one, having to rely on someone else to describe everything. Having to be the one with all the ideas."

Jim shrugged. He missed being able to pour over a crime scene, but he didn't want to think about it. He just had to find ways to compensate. "Let's start upstairs and work our way down."

"I can't believe anyone's lived here at all," Karen grumbled after searching the upstairs rooms. "Jim, I'm even looking at the baseboards, trying to find a trapdoor or something. Maybe the fireplace swings out and there's a secret passageway."

Jim smiled and ran through everything she'd described. He could practically see the rooms, she'd been so thorough. Bits of wallpaper still stuck in the corners of the closet. Places the carpet was more worn than others. The way the windowsills had warped so the windows didn't fit right.

"Four completely empty rooms, if you can believe it."

"If it wasn't you looking around, I wouldn't believe it. But I trust you." Jim had searched one closet while Karen did the rest of the rooms. He'd even let Hank sniff around and play police dog, but Hank hadn't found anything out of the ordinary.

The stairs were clear, too. Nothing. Ballistics had taken the bullet out of the stair it had been lodged in.

"This is the cleanest house I've ever seen waiting to be torn down."

Jim chewed on his lip. "A house that doesn't need to be condemned, and a body that really shouldn't have died."

"Let's search the basement." Karen led the way out back where the only entrance to the old cellar was set into the ground. Jim lifted the old door for her and slowly descended the dank cold stairs.

"I can't find a light switch," Karen said after a minute. "Probably they never got any electricity down here. Just the old boiler, not even a furnace. Dirt floors. Cobwebs." She shuddered. "I can hardly see anything."

"Smells like they've had a lot of water damage."

"I'm standing in a mud puddle. That tell you anything?"

Jim smiled and took her arm. "That it? Nothing else?"

"Nothing."

"Then let's go." Jim made sure she made it out of the mud puddle without slipping, then he turned and led the way upstairs. His shoulders slumped as he reached the fresh cold fall air. He couldn't feel the sun, probably cloudy and overcast, a perfect day to die, perfect for a funeral, for pouring over a crime scene. He just needed a ray of hope.

"You okay? Sorry we didn't find anything. I thought we might."

"We can't solve them all. I just wish we knew something. Anything. That's what bugs me. This place is too clean. You said it was freshly painted. Why would someone paint a place they were going to tear down?" Jim paced back and forth in the small back courtyard.

Hank watched, ready to jump in at any time. Karen stood next to him, also watching Jim.

"Jimmy…" Karen said slowly. "We'll find something."

Jim smiled grimly. "You don't need to try to cheer me up, Karen."

Karen sighed audibly.

Hank nudged her hand. He liked Karen. She was a good human, always ready to help. And she kept an eye on Jim whenever Jim left him in the car. Hank was grateful to her for that. He nudged her hand again.

"You have a cold nose, Hank," she said, but she reached down to pet him.

Jim stopped pacing. "It's cold."

"Yeah." Karen shivered. "Thanks for reminding me."

"Even Hank's cold."

"Hank, are you cold?" Karen leaned down to his level and he licked her face. "He says he's freezing and can we go get some coffee."

Jim turned back to the house. "The house wasn't cold." He paused, staring through the fog. "But you wouldn't really notice because a radiator doesn't make a lot of noise."

"So?"

"So what's the boiler doing on?"

Karen moved next to Jim and put a hand on his arm. "And," she said, "why's the electricity still on?"

"Who's paying the bills?"

_

* * *

_

"Nothing," Tom said, hanging up the phone.

"I called Sonny," Jim offered.

"Ooh, calling in the big guns," Marty said.

"You find anything, Marty?" Jim asked, leaning back in his chair to face the other detective.

"I think the guy's playing with you."

"Thanks for the opinion," Karen said.

"Pipsqueak doesn't seem like much of a street name," Tom said.

"Yeah, I know…" Jim trailed off, trying to think, but nothing new came to mind. Even if there was a good chance they were getting played, Jim wasn't ready to give up yet. "Some church is paying the bills on the old house. They probably forgot to get the utilities turned off. What'd we find out about Artez, DeLana, and their creepy uncle?" Jim asked Karen.

"They don't exist," she replied. "IRS doesn't even have anything on them."

"Great," Marty said.

"And still no word on the autopsy or the identity of the DOA," Tom supplied. "It's like none of these people existed, and when they die, all they'll leave is a corpse."

"You're a ray of sunshine today, Tom," Karen said.

"Anytime. Hey, Karen, if I break up with Nikki, you think that friend of yours would go out with me?"

Jim held his breath. He could almost feel the look he was sure Karen had shot in his direction.

"Nah. She doesn't date cops."

_

* * *

_

Jim let Karen guide him. They'd gotten a call about another DOA and had hurried out, hoping for an easy case they could clear in a day or two, something to give them a reprieve from this mess with Artez and the Owl kid, as Jim had started calling him because of his t-shirt. They walked into an old shop that seemed muffled and stifling to Jim. He kept close to Karen. The room was small and filled with other cops.

"Caucasian, female, blonde," an officer said, meeting them in the room. "About 23 or 24."

Karen stopped walking and Jim stayed at her side, waiting for her description of the new DOA. Karen was shaking her head and reached up to pat Jim's hand on her arm.

"Well, Jim, it looks like you'll never get to talk to her now," Karen said.

"Who?" He set his jaw. He had a hunch, that awful sick feeling he got during cases where everything went wrong.

"Samantha."

Jim let go of Karen's arm and stepped back. Yeah, everything was bound to go wrong in this case. If only the officers had stopped Samantha from leaving the day before. Or if he and Karen had been able to find her. Why'd she ever leave in the first place? Artez had said he knew she wasn't coming back, was surprised she'd actually left, like he knew she wouldn't live. But if she'd known she was going to die, why would she have gone anyway? And who would have wanted to kill her? Artez had to know. He'd said several times that Samantha and his sister were in trouble. He'd have to talk now.

"She doesn't have any ID," an officer said. "Did you know her?"

"From another case," Karen said and filled the officer in on what they did know about the elusive Samantha.

"You okay, Jim?" Karen asked when she was done.

He turned toward her. "Yeah." Actually, he wanted to hit someone. If Artez had told them before whatever it was he knew, they could have saved her. She didn't have to die. "How'd she die?" he asked, trying to stay calm and impartial.

"Shot in the shoulder," the officer said.

"In the _shoulder_?" Jim asked incredulously. "They hit a massive artery or something?"

"I don't know. I'm not a doctor. She was shot."

"Once?"

"Yeah."

Jim turned away from the officer and straightened his sunglasses. "Karen?"

"Doesn't look fatal," she confirmed.

Jim took a couple steps away from the body. They'd found Samantha on the floor of an old grocery that was being converted into some shop or other. No sign of forced entry. No witnesses. One of the contractors had found her.

"Face down."

"How's she look?"

"Not bad. Considering." Karen looked her over more closely. "Looks like she was a chocolate fanatic—it's all under her fingernails."

"What's she wearing?"

"A green t-shirt. Brown pants."

"Shoes?"

"Yeah. Cross trainers like she was wearing the last two times."

Jim felt Karen push against his shoulder.

"They're bringing the stretcher."

Jim moved until Karen stopped pushing. He could feel a half-finished wall behind his back—beams and insulation.

Karen swore under her breath. "Green t-shirt, orange letters. It says, "meow," not capitalized."

Jim turned to face where they were moving the body, as if he could see and confirm what Karen had just said.

"Won't hold up in a court of law, but we have a connection."

Jim reached for his phone. "We better have them move Artez and the others." Move them, and then go over and beat the piss out of Artez. Jim wasn't going to let anyone else die just so Artez could pretend he didn't know anything.

_

* * *

_

Jim paced impatiently behind Karen while she talked to the coroner on the phone.

"Jim," Karen said, annoyed.

He stopped. "What?"

"I'm on hold. And if you don't stop pacing right behind me, I'm liable to scoot my chair back and run over your foot."

"Violent today, Karen?" Marty asked.

Jim couldn't sit down. He felt confined. He moved away from Karen and stood facing the window to give her some space. He could go pace in the locker room. Or he could take Hank out and wander the streets aimlessly, but nothing much was going to get rid of this excess energy. It was frustrating, being frustrated. He still hadn't talked to Christie, the case wasn't getting anywhere, and he felt like he needed a new hobby. Hanging out at a bar without anyone to talk to wasn't working. It used to be, the past several months, that by the end of the day he'd be exhausted and he'd just want to go home. But as he got more comfortable with the job and the people and even with being blind, he found he had energy to spare. He really was starting to feel like his old self again—impatient and needing to multitask.

Karen was uh-huhing into the phone again. Jim spun around, ready for any information to twist around in his mind. He almost started pacing again, but caught the back of his chair and held on.

Karen set the phone down quietly, more quietly than usual. She didn't say anything right away. Jim sat down and spun his chair to face her. "Okay, tell us."

"She was pregnant. It was a boy."

Jim stared incredulously at the blankness that would have been Karen. "Did she look pregnant?" he finally asked.

"I guess. I just thought it was left over from the other baby. Some women have trouble losing that weight, you know."

"Can we tell who the father was?"

"I asked them to run that test. We'll get a blood sample from Artez when we bring him in, but I have a feeling it's not his kid."

"Sounds like you're working on a soap opera," Marty said.

"And getting more complicated all the time," Karen replied.

_

* * *

_

DeLana and the kids were left to stay safe at the new apartment, but Artez was pulled to identify the body. Jim was so anxious for answers he wanted to intercept Rico Artez before he could get to the morgue.

"Jim, you have to be patient. We'll give him a few minutes, then we'll go down and talk to him, okay?" Karen said calmly.

Jim was standing behind his desk chair, unable even to sit down. He shook his head. "Let's bring him up here. I want to talk to him in private."

"You'll stay calm, right? You're not going to do anything rash?"

"Karen, don't you know me by now?"

"That's why I'm asking."

"Karen, if he'd told us something before, there'd be one less dead body in New York, did you ever think of that? If he'd just come clean, one less person had to die."

"Maybe he thinks if he'd come clean, his sister and the kids would have been killed, too. Did you ever think of that?"

"I just want some answers. That's all. And we're keeping him here until we get them."

"Okay," Karen agreed. "Just keep your head. I'll bring him up and we'll meet you in room 2, okay?"

Jim tried to wait patiently, but he was staring at the window of the interview room when Karen finally showed up. He listened to the door open and his fists clenched.

"Detective," Rico Artez greeted him with a sniff.

Jim's eyes narrowed. Crying again, but he wasn't going to get any sympathy this time. He had to reign in the desire to order the other man to pull himself together. He had to be calm; the man's girlfriend had just been found dead.

"Who's it going, Rico?" he said without turning.

"You know," Rico said.

"You feel responsible for her death?"

"I didn't kill her!"

"I didn't say you did." Jim finally turned around. "I just said you should feel responsible. I can't help but wonder, if you'd been honest with us from the start, would she still be alive?"

The room was quiet and Jim moved forward and pulled out a chair. "Have a seat and tell me. What do you think about that?"

There was silence for a minute, then Jim heard Artez and Karen both sit. Jim leaned back to wait. He knew this wasn't going to be easy. Getting information could take all day.

"They know I'm here," Artez whispered. He sounded scared.

Jim pressed his lips together. "Tell us, who knows you're here?"

"The ones who killed Samantha."

Jim nodded. They were finally getting somewhere.

"I don't know who they are or how to find them. Samantha did. But if you take me back to DeLana, they'll know. They'll follow me and they'll kill her. I won't ever be able to see her again. Don't take me back," he pleaded.

"Give us some straight answers and we'll take care of it."

"I told you! I don't know! Samantha knew, that's why they killed her."

"Rico," Karen said, leaning across the table to take his hand, "why'd she leave yesterday? Where'd she go?"

"She didn't know where she was going or why she was leaving. All she knew was she had to go. She said she'd seen a sign, like a biblical prophesy or something. They were calling her back."

Jim sighed. "Can you start at the beginning?"

"If I do, they'll kill DeLana, too. I can't."

"So what are we supposed to do with you?" Karen asked. "Obviously you know something. You just won't tell us. We can just sit here all day and wait, you know." There was silence. A minute passed, two minutes. Rico Artez was shifting in his chair. He'd started sniffling again.

Jim waited. He hoped Karen had one of those looks that could make a person speak. Jim had prided himself on the way he could look at someone and they would just break down, but now he had to let Karen take care of the non-verbal communication. He hoped she looked scary, yet sympathetic, no-nonsense, but someone a person could open up to. It was asking an awful lot, but Jim knew Karen could handle it. He really did trust her.

"Accessory to murder," Karen finally said. "We'll book you."

Jim blinked, surprised at first. "Sounds good to me." He stood.

"Don't I get a say in this?"

"We don't even need a statement from you. You withheld information. If you don't talk, you're arrested," Karen said.

"I guess I don't have a choice," Artez said quietly.

Jim swore under his breath. But at least Artez would be safe, and maybe a night in jail would help soften him up.

_

* * *

_

Jim realized he must have had that spaced out look the other detectives liked to tease him about because Karen put a hand on his shoulder as she passed behind him on the way to her desk.

"Jim, you can't prevent every murder," she said quietly.

He listened to her sit, but didn't turn toward her as he shrugged. "Wish I could."

"If you could have prevented any crime in New York, which one would you pick?"

Jim thought about it for only a moment before tossing her a smile. "I'd save John Lennon."

It was odd, he realized a minute later. He hadn't picked the bank robbery. He could have saved himself. He could have saved Terry. He could have saved all those cops.

Yet he really wanted to give peace a chance.

He'd had a dream the night before that was still making him shudder. It was the same as always, but opposite. He hadn't been the hero, he hadn't been the one to shoot the gunman at the bank. He'd been crouched where Terry usually was, already blind. As helpless and as handicapped as Terry had been. He couldn't see and he didn't have a gun. He couldn't help, even if he'd wanted to.

That scared him for Karen's sake. He was her partner now. Against a gun, he was helpless. Up close, he could pummel a guy, but from far away all he could do would be to stumble in the general direction and pray he made it in time. Or stay out of the way.

_

* * *

_

They went to another sports bar, but all the TVs had been muted and the juke box turned up. The place sounded packed and Jim remembered how uncomfortable he'd been the only other time he'd been out alone with Tom and Marty. It just wasn't the same, watching a game on TV that he couldn't see. The TV announcers weren't as in-depth as the ones on the radio and it had hit Jim that he'd lost another thing that had been such a big part of his life. He hadn't stayed very long that time.

And now there were people everywhere. The bass was blasting and Jim couldn't imagine how anyone could hold a conversation. He held tightly to Hank's harness as they walked through the bar, looking for an open table. It seemed like a lot of tables had been moved from the front of the bar to make room for dancing. Jim's muscles were tense by the time he'd pushed his way through the crowd. Already he wanted to leave, but he didn't want to have to get to the door.

They found a table at the side of a small back room, far enough away from the juke box that they didn't have to shout. Jim found the back of a chair and pulled it out. Tom sat on his left and Marty leaned over the table, talking loudly. "I'll get the first round. What d'you want?"

"Just a beer," Jim said.

"Come on, Jim, live a little."

"Really, I'd love a beer."

Marty disappeared.

The place was hot. Jim shrugged out of his trench coat, then his suit jacket. He waited a moment, still sweating, then rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and loosened his tie.

"Didn't know we were coming to a sauna," Tom said.

Jim nodded. "How's your girlfriend?"

"Good. Real good. I surprised her with a single rose over lunch and we've never been better. Did you know that one long-stemmed rose is more effective than a full dozen?"

Jim grinned. "It depends on the situation."

"I guess, but I'm going to keep this in mind."

"Never works twice." A bottle plunked on the table and Jim reached for it. "Thanks." He took a long swig, closing his eyes for a second like he could shut out the chaos of the room. He took a deep breath as he set his beer back down and realized it really wasn't so loud back here. He and Tom hadn't had to yell, he'd easily heard Marty set down the beer and pull out the chair across the table. He could even hear Hank lying half under the table scratching at his collar and making the dog tags jingle.

"So, Jim…" Marty started.

Jim opened his eyes and looked across the table.

"You and Karen find anything new?"

Jim shook his head. "It's really bugging me, too. I just don't know what we're missing."

"I told you Artez was a pain in the ass."

Jim grinned. "See? I wasn't just flattering you about being a good judge of character."

"You gotta be careful, Jim. Marty lets the smallest things go to his head," Tom said.

"I'm always careful, Tom."

"Sometimes you have to throw caution to the wind," Marty advised. "Let things get out of control."

Jim grinned. "I'm a control freak, Marty, what can I say?"

The other detectives laughed and Jim joined in. Jim's life was so regimented, so controlled, just so he could get around the city and live as normally as possible. It probably drove the other people in the squad crazy, keeping to Jim's standard.

"If crimes were controllable, we'd be out of a job," Marty said. "But I can't say I mind having you working out all the nitty gritty details for us."

Jim took a drink, pondering the case.

"Don't go all comatose on us," Tom said.

Jim tried to smile. "It just bugs me. I met this girl yesterday. You guys all talked to her and now she's dead. Why? It's gotta be related, right? Who would want to kill her?"

"Everyone needs an enemy, Dunbar," Marty said. "Keeps you humble, always wondering what you did wrong and trying your best to make a friend out of that enemy."

Tom laughed. "Sounds like he's offering to be your enemy, Jim."

"I'm flattered, Marty, really, I am."

"Jim-my," a female voice sing-songed while a finger ran down the back of his neck.

Jim shivered and froze, his smile falling as quickly as it had come. He stared straight ahead, not blinking, waiting with a foreign hand playing through the back of his hair. The girl leaned down and kissed him on the cheek.

"It's been a while," she said.

Jim's heart skipped ahead, pounding. Marty and Tom had to be staring; they knew he was married. Christie—he couldn't let anything jeopardize what they had. But who was this girl? Which bar had they gone to? Franco's or something like that. The name hadn't sounded familiar, but bars around here changed ownership so often there was no telling if maybe this was one of his old haunts revamped. And this girl—why didn't she take her hand away?

He turned his head up toward her with his eyebrows knitting together. He tried to fix her with the no-nonsense look he used to give perps, but the confusion was making him feel stupid.

Her hand withdrew. "You don't remember me," she accused.

Jim just shook his head. She definitely didn't fit into his ordered world.

"You never called."

Geez! She'd been waiting over a year for him to call? Going on two years now, it had to be, 'cause he'd stopped flirting with other girls when he met Anne. Before her, though, he had to admit he'd been a bit of a dog.

He lowered his gaze down toward the floor and Hank. Hank was much more well-behaved than Jim had been.

Anne had been his only real affair. He'd spent evenings with various girls flirting in bars, but that had been it. He'd never pursued actual relationships with anyone else.

"Simone," she said. She pulled out the chair to his right and sat down.

"Simone, I'm married."

"I know that," she said in a teasing voice.

"I'm married," he said again, more emphatically.

"Didn't stop you before."

She leaned over and he found her lips tugging at his, but he pulled back and turned his head away.

"You still don't remember me? Or your wife found out you had a flirtatious side and you got in trouble?"

"Simone—" he said firmly.

She interrupted. "Aren't you going to introduce me?"

Jim could almost hear her eyelashes batting together.

"I'm married, too," Marty said.

"I'm not," Tom put in.

Jim sighed. "Tom, this is Simone. Simone, Tom."

"You wanna dance?" Tom asked.

"Sure." She giggled.

Jim's head snapped over. He remembered the giggle, though he couldn't pick out a face for her. He really had been bad, if he couldn't even remember all the girls he'd flirted with. And promised to call. He didn't usually make promises he had no intention of keeping.

He felt Tom and Simone grab hands over his head as they stood.

"See you later, Jimmy," she said and kissed his cheek again.

Jim reached out and snagged Tom's jacket before he could get away.

"Tom, don't forget you have a girlfriend."

"No problem. Sounds like you might be a hypocrite, though." Tom patted his shoulder and headed for the dance floor.

"Well?" Marty said after they were gone.

Jim put his head in his hands. He didn't want Marty to know everything he'd done. That wasn't the best way to gain respect.

"I'm surprised you could forget a girl like that. Blonde, midriff, belly button ring, real ornate, too. Tight pants, pastel."

Jim shook his head.

"But you never called her?"

"No, Marty, I never called. I flirted, but I never called her." Wasn't entirely honest, but he couldn't pretend to be totally innocent. "Christie and I were fighting…"

"So you made a mistake. Whoever said Dunbar was perfect, right?"

"Right." He sighed.

"We could get Tom in big trouble, though.

Jim couldn't even smile back. "I think we need to keep an eye on Tom so he _doesn't_ get into big trouble."

"Meaning me."

"Yeah, Marty, you happen to be the one facing the dance floor, right?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Jim woke up at five-thirty Saturday morning. Christie was asleep next to him, but there seemed to be an invisible line down the center of the bed. She was safely sleeping on her half and Jim didn't dare cross the line. He got up and dressed without making coffee. He'd spend the morning at the gym, hiding from a confrontation with his wife. He wasn't sure what project she was working on for the magazine, but he figured that as soon as it was over, he'd have to contend with her missed birthday. He wasn't ready yet, couldn't defend himself. Especially not when he could still taste Simone on his lips, feel her lipstick on his cheek, smell her on his shirt mixed with bar smoke. He was sure Christie would see it all, especially the finger strokes in his hair.

After wearing himself out physically his mind was still whirring out of control. Jim headed for the 8. He could review the files they'd made on the case, see if they'd overlooked something.

The floor was quiet except for the dinging of the elevator closing behind him. Jim let Hank go with a smile. He seldom got time alone to think anymore. Used to be, at the 77, he'd spend a lot of Saturday afternoons lazing around at his desk, sometimes working on a case, sometimes just enjoying the quiet. He'd been able to just stare into space and think without anyone bothering him, without any pressing issues cropping up. He even enjoyed the weekend homicide investigations; they always seemed so laid back.

"Didn't anyone tell you it's Saturday?" Marty asked from his desk.

Jim froze in the mouth of the hallway and tried to smile. Marty was the last person he'd expected to be spending a Saturday with, but he headed for his desk as planned.

"What is that, Armani?" Marty asked.

Jim paused in shrugging out of his overcoat and raised a hand to his chest, unable to remember what he was wearing. He grinned as he sank into his chair. "It's a t-shirt, Marty. Latest style." He slid his laptop out of his bag as Hank flopped into his usual spot on the floor. "You forget something here?" he asked, wondering how long he would be graced with company.

"Nah. You?"

"Nope." Jim settled into work, playing back file after file, listening to the stilted speech of the computer. He was surprised to find Marty quietly working at his own desk, that they worked together quite comfortably. Jim leaned back in his chair as far as his earpiece would allow, committing every fact and fiction to memory.

"Hey, Dunbar."

Jim paused the tinny voice and looked over at Marty.

"Lunchtime. You coming?"

Jim frowned, thinking he'd misheard somehow.

"No ulterior motive. Honest."

"Sure. I mean, I didn't think you had one, just—sure, I'll come." Jim shut the top of his laptop and pulled out his earpiece. Hours had passed and he felt good, like he'd accomplished something.

They ended up at a deli a few blocks away, quiet but companionable. Usually around the people in the squad Jim found himself too busy being defensive and skeptical to be hungry, but this time he was starving.

"So that girl yesterday…" Marty said while they waited in line.

Jim groaned. He should have known. "There was nothing between us."

"You were married, though, right?"

"Yeah. I was married. Can we talk about something else?"

"Yeah, didn't realize you were so touchy."

"I'm always touchy about something I did wrong. Especially when it keeps coming back to haunt me."

"Your wife know?"

"Marty…"

"Sorry." Marty moved up to the counter and ordered, then Jim followed suit. "I'll get the tray," Marty offered.

"Thanks."

They picked a table dead center. Well, Marty picked the table and Jim sat. He could feel people moving all around him, hear them every which way to the point of distraction. Used to be he liked to sit at the back at restaurants, a wall behind his back, always keeping an eye on the situation, not being at the center of everything. He felt the same way now.

Jim grabbed the plate Marty slid across the table. He loved sandwiches. He always had, but ever since he'd lost his sight, he found their appeal a hundred times greater. He didn't have to worry about eating, nor about embarrassing himself or anyone with him. Christie'd never been a big fan of finger foods—he'd only gotten her to eat ribs once, juicy and hot and doused in BBQ sauce, and she'd eaten them with a fork and knife. That, he'd found embarrassing. He was just glad they hadn't been out with his friends, he hadn't had to explain Christie's meticulous eating habits, hadn't needed to apologize to anyone when she came away from the dinner not even needing a wet nap.

"So… Why'd you become a cop?" Jim asked halfway through his sandwich when he'd satiated his immediate hunger.

Marty swallowed and took a drink of his coffee before answering. Jim munched on a pickle while he waited.

"It was back in high school, middle of a football game. I was flat on my back 'cause the other guy was off-sides. He was so mad at the call, he jumped up and went after one of my teammates. I mean, the guy was taunting him, so he was provoked, but still. Before I even thought about it, I was on my feet and I jumped the guy—twice my size. He plays professional football now, I just found out last week. But I wasn't going to let him hurt anyone else.

"And while I was lying there, I realized there was more to life than high school football and maybe I'd just saved Josh's butt—I mean, the week before this kid from another school had been killed, neck just snapped after almost the same thing. He hadn't been expecting the hit, and pow.

"I guess I thought it was a good idea, fighting to save peoples' lives, trying to keep the world safe."

"You like it?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I do. You must like it, I don't even have to ask."

Jim smiled. "I do. Worthwhile, right?"

"Doesn't hurt to get to beat people up once in a while, right?"

"Careful, Marty, sounds like police brutality."

Marty laughed. "So why'd you? Become a cop, I mean?"

"I'd just gotten my discharge from the military. I guess I liked the idea of continuing the fight for justice on a smaller scale, one person at a time. Being a cop wasn't that different from what I was used to."

"Just 'cause you're used to it… That doesn't mean there's not another job out there for you somewhere," Marty said awkwardly.

Jim shook his head.

"Can't blame a guy for asking. I mean, I know you're good at your job, don't get me wrong. I just wanted to..."

"Make sure I'd explored all my options? Don't worry, I think I was pretty thorough. I had almost a year to think about it."

Marty was quiet across the table and Jim didn't expound. Jim wasn't ready to look back over the time since he'd been shot and Marty probably wasn't ready to hear it yet, either.

Jim polished off his sandwich and the coffee, trying to think only of the future, of the case. But the food was a far cry from what he'd had to eat in the Gulf. And being a homicide detective wasn't nearly as gory as clean-up duty had been. It was more satisfying mentally, being able to find the answer, instead of just knowing how all those people had died during the war. Being a detective was downright cushy compared. But he couldn't decide whether or not he'd go back, if it meant being able to see again. Maybe it was a toss-up.

"More coffee?" Marty asked.

"Sure." Jim grabbed his cup and handed it across the table. He tried to follow Marty's movements back to the counter where the coffee was sitting, but he lost him when someone walked between them, loud bangle bracelets and chunky boots, a windbreaker that scratched when the fabric rubbed together.

Jim turned on his observant side, picking out individual people sitting around him and trying to describe them to himself from their movements. The place was loud with people talking and laughing and cell phones playing various tunes competing for spotlight over a piped-in radio station. But nothing could hide the person sitting directly behind him whose dentures clacked dangerously with every bit. Or the way two kids were playing Chinese Fire Drill at the back of the deli, switching chairs, running around the table on command every few seconds.

"Here."

Jim whipped his head around. He hadn't been listening for Marty to come back and he hadn't heard Marty set the mug down on the table. Just quiet as he stood there holding the cup and waiting for Jim to take it. It felt like he was back that first day on the squad, waiting for Marty to try to take his gun. Only now the tables were turned, like Marty was challenging him to try to take the mug.

Jim felt his jaw tighten. He reached up a hand, Marty hadn't made another move, wasn't even breathing loud enough to give Jim a clue as to the whereabouts of the coffee mug.

The mug slid into his outstretched hand after a moment. Jim quickly set it on the table, facing Marty's chair, waiting. He listened as Marty sat down, and he waited. He finally picked up the coffee and took a sip, still waiting.

Hank yawned and batted at something under the table. Jim hoped briefly that it would be a rat, that someone would jump up screaming and in the chaos, between calls to the city health inspectors, the awkwardness of the moment would be forgotten.

Jim started to wonder what time it was. He could be at home with Christie, pretending everything was okay between them. They could be cooking dinner together like they used to do and she could feed him half-cooked pasta and vegetables to see if they were seasoned right, how much longer they needed to cook. He could be popping open a bottle of champagne—or red wine, Christie was going through a phase where she preferred red wine. They could go back to the couch while dinner simmered and profess how much they loved each other—they'd always been masters of the sweet nothing, though they could barely scrape the surface of the deep conversation.

Anne had been good at that. She would argue with him and try to make him a better man, where Christie just tried to take him better places to be with better people and left the better man part up to him. It had been Anne's obsession with talking over deep life prospects and morals that had convinced him to come clean with both the women in his life. If it hadn't been for that, he probably would have eventually just broken it off with Anne and hoped Christie never found out so things wouldn't change between them. Not that things had been going so great between them when he had confessed, but that was what he was most ashamed of in his life. Seeking forgiveness, he'd had to watch Christie's heart break, watch the betrayal pierce her eyes, watch the tears and hatred.

She'd never been able to forgive him. He didn't blame her.

"So at a crime scene, without Karen, you're helpless, right?" Marty asked.

Jim's teeth were clenched and he found he couldn't lift his gaze from the table where it had fallen when he thought of how much Christie must truly hate him, and how he wasn't making it any easier for her to forgive him.

"I prefer to think of it as a team effort, Marty," Jim said and finally wrenched his gaze upward. He wasn't going to let Marty think he was ashamed of being blind. Shame had nothing to do with it.

"But without Karen…?"

"I'd make do. I admit, it helps to have her there describing some things. But I hope I manage to give something back to her, too."

"Does she feel the same way?"

Jim shrugged and lifted his chin defiantly. "Solving a crime is always a team effort. One cop doesn't document everything, comb the place for clues, interview everyone, and make an arrest."

"So if you stumbled onto a crime scene first—"

Jim stood up so quickly Marty bit off the rest of his sentence. Stumbled, is that what Marty thought he did all day? Normally he wasn't so touchy about a choice of words, but it was Marty and chances were he'd chosen deliberately. It didn't help that Marty'd been asking about Simone, got him thinking about Anne.

"Didn't mean to insinuate anything."

"I thought we'd taken care of all this."

Silence, maybe a shrug.

"Anything else?" Jim picked up Hank's harness.

"I'm not trying to offend you. I just want to make sure you can do your job and no one's going to get hurt, okay?"

"You've seen firsthand for months, Marty. What more do you want?"

"Just making sure you're not slacking," Marty justified.

Slacking. Jim wondered briefly, if he'd given Terry hell, if he'd have managed to keep him on the job. Maybe they all needed someone to ride them, someone to prove themselves to. Like Marty'd said, they all need an enemy. Jim nodded. "You'd be the first to notice if I was."

Marty stood up with the tray. "I really wasn't trying to offend you…"

"Then stop questioning my ability to do my job!" Jim said, but quietly, deadly quiet. He wasn't going to make a scene.

Marty headed for the door, dropping off the tray. Jim followed. Once they were back on the sidewalk he felt Marty's hand on his arm and stopped. Marty pulled away and jammed his hands in his jacket pockets. "It was just…"

"The coffee," Jim supplied.

"Yeah. I thought I'd just stand there until you noticed—"

"I wasn't paying attention. Don't tell me you've never not seen someone walk up. And if you ever bring me something again, just set it down. I'll find it a lot easier than if you're waving it in the air." Jim nudged Hank toward the precinct.

"I forget you're blind sometimes," Marty said quietly after a block. It sounded like he'd just noticed that himself.

Jim almost stopped as surely as if he'd run into a solid object. He willed his feet to keep walking as he mulled that over, though it felt like the breath had been knocked out of him. Was that even possible, for someone to forget he was blind, when they worked with him every day, sat right across from him and stared him in the eye, obsessed the way Marty had at first?

How, he wanted to ask, but couldn't get the word out.

He wondered if Christie ever forgot. They usually spent so much time together. She'd been with him since the beginning.

Christie wouldn't forget, Jim decided. She wouldn't let herself. His blindness was probably the only reason she was still with him.

One of these days, he'd get up the courage to ask her about it. Right after he got up the courage to apologize.

Jim reached the door of the precinct first. It wasn't until he'd pulled the door open that he realized Marty wasn't right next to him anymore. His footsteps were still twenty feet away and Jim stood outside holding the door, waiting.

"Trying to escape?" Marty asked, walking past Jim through the door. "We were headed to the same place."

He hadn't realized he'd picked up his pace. He used to walk really fast when he was thinking. Used to be he thought best when he was out running.

"Truce, okay? Sorry I brought it up."

"Yeah." Jim nodded and pushed the elevator button. "You really forget I'm blind?"

"Sometimes. It's not that hard to do—don't give me that look."

Jim smiled.

"You ever forget?" Marty asked.

Jim thought it over. "Sometimes," he answered. He hadn't even realized it, but he did. He found he was long past the point where every waking moment was spent thinking about how he used to be able to see.

He sat at his desk and powered his computer back up while Marty shrugged out of his jacket. Jim opened the top of his watch, wondering how long he had before he should make an obligatory appearance at home.

"What time is it?" Marty asked.

"Almost three."

"Game starts at three. Nebraska/Oklahoma. I was gonna catch it at home, unless you don't mind me turning on the radio."

Jim shook his head. "Should be a helluva game." He listened as Marty reached for the radio and flipped it on. He leaned back in his chair, trying to review the case. "Before lunch I faxed the hospitals. Assuming, of course, that Samantha gave birth at a hospital. I asked them to pull the birth records for the day her son was born. Tamika gladly supplied that over the phone, along with a whole slew of unrelated data. She loves talking about that baby."

"So if she went to the hospital, maybe we can find out a last name?"

"And next of kin."

"Is that who you were on the phone with for an hour this morning?"

Jim grinned. "An hour and a half."

"Persistent, aren't you?"

Jim laughed.

"Before, were you always so…"

"Intense?" Jim supplied.

"Obsessive," Marty corrected.

"Yeah, I was." He couldn't wipe the grin off his face. Not only did it seem like things were back to normal between him and Marty, the tension long-gone, but Jim could tell he really hadn't changed all that much. He'd been so worried he'd lose himself. Now he knew there was no danger of that.

_

* * *

_

"I was starting to get worried." Christie's voice was quiet.

Jim dropped his keys on the table by the door, then reached in his coat pocket and held up his cell phone. "If anything would have happened, I'm prepared." He laid the phone next to the keys and knelt to take off Hank's harness.

"You were gone when I got up."

Jim nodded. "I went to the gym, then the squad."

"Case giving you grief?"

She was still being so quiet Jim found it worrying. She was worried about him, she wasn't giving him the third degree about where he'd been all day. "Yeah. Lack of evidence."

"That's always bugged you."

"There's evidence somewhere, we just can't find it, that's what bugs me."

"Especially now? Since you can't go look for it yourself?"

Jim pressed his lips together and headed for the kitchen. He'd been right—Christie would never forget he was blind.

Then again, none of the people at the squad had known him before. Christie couldn't help but look at him and realize he'd changed, that he wasn't the same man. Compare him.

Not all the changes had been for the worst. He wanted to sit her down and tell her all the good things he was noticing about this new man he'd become.

"I thought we could spend the evening together?" Christie asked when Jim didn't answer. "We haven't spent a lot of time together lately."

"Yeah, that'd be great." It would be awkward, be honest with yourself, Dunbar, he thought.

"I'm sorry I've been so busy lately. We haven't gotten to spend much time together."

We've been avoiding each other, he thought. There's a reason for that. "I've missed you," he found himself saying.

She followed him to the refrigerator and kissed him. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

"Are you hungry?" She pulled a beer out of the refrigerator and handed it to him.

"Not yet."

She tugged his hand. "Let's sit on the couch and catch up. I really wanted to spend a quiet evening alone, just the two of us."

Jim followed her to the couch, staring at what would have been the back of her head, wondering, do I love you anymore?

* * *

Jim wasn't satisfied. He'd spent the whole evening with Christie. It had been pleasant. What an awful word for an evening with his wife.

Then again, it wasn't unpleasant, not like some nights he'd seen pass between his own parents.

And how about his grandparents? Those were two people who could cohabitate. There'd been no passion, no fireworks, more like a business partnership. Things got done that needed doing—and it was pleasant. When he was younger, spending time with them, that's what he'd hoped for in a relationship.

Until he'd met Christie. That had shown him how much more there was to love than just existing side by side. Gorgeous, smart, he couldn't spend enough time with her.

Then the fighting.

His mom had always said she'd loved his dad, that's why she never left. Maybe it was the same with him and Christie—earth shattering love and hate, both waiting to destroy them with their power.

Pleasant had started to look better, and now he'd had it. A quiet night with this wife, talking about work. Christie told him about having lunch with an old friend. Jim avoided talking about spending the day with Russo because he didn't want to know what she thought about people forgetting he couldn't see. She probably would have said, 'oh, Jimmy, I wish they could,' then played her fingers through his hair to try to comfort him for spoiling his delusions.

By early Sunday evening Jim had had enough of hanging around the apartment. Christie had her computer out and was working on some article or other. Not sure if he was just a glutton for punishment, he headed to Morrissey's. A couple hours drinking beer and thinking never hurt anyone.

Someone leaned up against the bar next to Jim. "Another round, Gray, and make it snappy this time, huh?"

Jim looked over. "Cal?"

"Yeah." There was a pause. "Jim? Sht! Jimmy! I didn't recognize you there."

"How's it going?" Jim asked awkwardly. If Cal was there, that probably meant the other guys were, too. Maybe no one had noticed him—though he thought the guide dog sort of attracted attention.

"Good, good. You?"

"Yeah, good."

"The guys are here, come on over, I'll buy you a beer."

Jim took a swig of the beer he had. "Who's all there?"

"Just Steve and Foster. Bobby might come up later, but you know how it is."

Jim nodded, though he'd never known what was up with Bobby, just that he often couldn't make it. "Yeah, I'll join you, that'd be great." He finished the beer and stood up while Gray plunked a few bottles on the counter. He picked up Hank's harness, hoping there would be enough room for Hank wherever the guys were sitting.

"I'll get the beers—" Call stopped and cleared his throat. "Uh, you get the dog…"

Jim tried to smile. "I got the dog." Jim realized he wasn't wearing his sunglasses and felt the need to pull them out. But he didn't; they were just old friends.

"Jimmy, you—"

Jim raised his eyebrows.

"Uh…"

He sighed. "Yeah, I can't see. Problem?"

"Just checking. How are you gonna, you know? Can you make it to our table okay?"

"Hank will follow you. It's not that crowded. Just let me know where a chair is once we get there."

"Right."

Jim couldn't read silence. Silence could mean so many different things that he couldn't usually speculate the origins. Were people uncomfortable? Were they so comfortable they didn't feel the need to make small talk? Was there a problem? Were they preoccupied?

If the silence happened after he'd been there a while, he usually knew what it was for. But walking into a silence was like walking into an ambush.

Foster, Steve, and Cal. They were bar friends, people Jim hung out with at the bar, but didn't make plans with outside just a beer or two after work. Foster sold insurance, Steve was a mechanic, Cal an accountant. They lived separate lives, had disparate desires, the only thing they'd ever had in common was enjoying each other's company as drinking buddies.

Fos came from an upper-class family—his ambition had always been to be the prodigal son, but he'd found that once he fell low enough, he had no desire to return home to a huge parade, so he made his own way in life. Cal and Steve were both middle-class, hardworking guys, didn't talk about their parents other than to rib Fos about how easy he'd had it and they didn't. All three had been married and divorced, Cal was the only one who had remarried, Jim was the only one still on his first wife and they used to give him heck about chucking her and joining them because divorce was the happiest time in a man's life, right up there with getting his driver's license the first time.

Steve was the quiet one, Fos the one with the most irreverent sense of humor, Cal the laid-back one. Jim had been the loud and outgoing one, the one with the most adventuresome stories, the one who could entice girls over so the other guys could practice flirting.

"Here's a chair," Cal said, pulling it out so it scraped on the floor. "I'll go get another."

Jim suddenly felt like he was putting them out, forcing himself on them. No one had said anything besides Cal, and even he sounded tense. "Hey, guys," Jim said and slid into the chair Cal had vacated.

It took a moment.

"Hey, Jim," Fos said.

"Jim…" Steve said slowly, like he wasn't sure what Jim was doing there.

"How's it going?" Keep them talking, that had become Jim's motto. The best way to deal with perps, maybe even the best way to deal with old friends.

"Eh," a noncommittal reply from Foster.

"You know," Steve said.

It's been over a year, Jim wanted to say. Of course he didn't know.

But it had been over a year—maybe he had no place here anymore.

"We were talking about the World Series. Astros or White Sox, what's your bet, Jim?"

"Astros, I guess. I've been a little too busy to pay much attention this season."

Cal grunted. "Right. Gotta be hard to get used to, I guess."

"Not that. Work. We've been kinda busy."

Silence.

"Right," Cal finally said. "You went back. You were famous there for a while. People kept asking us how you were doing."

Jim just nodded. He didn't want to talk about the bank, or after the bank.

Steve coughed.

"Leave it," Cal said in a low voice.

Jim cocked his head toward Steve, waiting. When Steve did have something to say, he usually didn't hold back.

"Well if he thinks I'm going to jump on the Jim-bandwagon and praise him, he's wrong," Steve told Cal.

Jim's head snapped back, trying to follow. It was obviously something they'd talked about a lot over the past year.

"Is that why you went back to work, Jim? You wanna be a hero again? You pretty proud of yourself?"

"Come on, this is Jim," Cal said, playing mediator.

"Yeah, and he always liked honesty. Right, Jim? You always thought you were pretty tough shit. You were always pretty full of yourself, all those criminals you got to beat up and put away."

"Steve," Fos said.

"You killed a man, Jim, you proud of that? Looking for another medal of honor? 'Cause you aren't gonna get one from me."

Jim realized his mouth was hanging open and he shut it.

"I just wanted to make sure you didn't think it was 'cause you're blind," Steve said. "I've seen you in here a couple times, but it wasn't 'cause you're blind I didn't say hi."

"Why didn't you tell us you saw—" Cal started.

"'Cause."

Jim nodded slowly. "I get it." He stood, tried to smile. "Thanks for the beer."

"Jim." Cal grabbed his arm.

He heard Fos stand up, but Steve just sat there. "I'm not proud of it. But I did kill a man."

"Come on, Steve, he's always said no comment, won't interview about it, right, Jim?" Cal's grip tightened.

"If I hadn't done it, I wouldn't be here right now. Maybe there was a way around it, but…"

"So you got what you deserve, right?" Foster asked. "You can't shoot anyone anymore, right?"

Jim furrowed his brow.

"I'm joking, but… right?"

Jim pulled back his coat. "No gun." He gestured at his eyes. "Can't see." He tried to smile. "As for whether or not I deserved this… maybe I did, but the world doesn't work that way." The good didn't get rewarded, the bad didn't get smote. For a while, when it first happened, he'd played around with that idea, that he'd been punished, but he couldn't make it stick. He'd seen enough bad guys get off free and clear.

"Sit," Cal ordered, tugging on Jim's arm.

"Sit," Fos echoed.

Jim turned toward Steve. There was a pause.

"He can't see you shrug," Cal said.

"Sit," Steve said finally.

* * *

"Hey, you okay?" Gray asked.

"Yeah." Jim frowned. "No problems here."

"I've just never seen you here 'til close."

Jim had stayed behind when the other three guys had taken off two hours before. He hadn't even gotten up to get another beer, just sat there, staring into space and thinking.

It was all just so wrong. He'd earned his place with these guys years ago. And now he could barely talk to them?

"Some things change, Gray." He listened as the bartender overturned the chairs and set them on the tables as he cleaned them. It had been a familiar ritual when he'd been in the military, staying until the chair he was sitting on needed to be turned. With the advent of Christie his party days had pretty much been passé. Maybe he should have been grateful—it would have been a greater shock to lose that with his sight.

"Everything changes," Gray countered.

Jim laughed. "You sound like my shrink."

"That's what a bartender is, right?"

Jim stood up, still grinning. "Absolutely. Have a good night."

Hank shook himself when Jim tried to take his harness. He could feel ground-up peanut shells stuck to the fur on his belly and a coat of ashes had settled on his fur. He shook again. Hank knew what this meant—bath time. He sighed. He'd need fewer baths if he could keep Jim out of places like these. Christie was going to be upset—he was sure he smelled like dog and stale smoke.

Jim quickly ran his hands through Hank's thick fur, dislodging a few peanut shells and a wad of gum. "Sorry about that, Hank." He flicked off another peanut shell from Hank's tail.

"Looks like I need to sweep under the tables a little better," Gray said.

Hank sneezed on Gray for good measure. Dutiful guide dog, yes, but he had his opinions.

"Night, Jim."

"Night, Gray."

"Night, Hank, and sorry about the peanuts."

Jim ordered Hank to take him to the door and followed the dog as they wove between tables.

The cold in the air was enough to snap Jim out of his reverie. If he'd been drunk, it would have been enough to make him realize he needed a cab. New York nights could be very sobering.

"Hey."

Jim stopped Hank and turned, expecting a bum asking for money or cigarettes.

"Uh… Jim…"

It was all Jim could do to keep his face impassive as he waited for Steve to say something of consequence.

"Look, I wanted to apologize. It wasn't your fault you had to shoot that guy. Someone had to do it, right? And like Fos said, you paid the price."

"I don't believe in divine retribution." Jim turned Hank back and signaled him to go.

"I know, I'm sorry."

"It's late," Jim said as he started walking.

Steve fell into step with them. "You didn't deserve what happened to you, and you didn't deserve me being such a jerk. It's just—"

Hank stopped at the end of the block and Jim felt for the curb with his foot, listened a moment for traffic, then stepped into the street.

"It's just…" Steve trailed off. "Seeing you in there the past couple days just pissed me off, you know. All I could think was if I said anything, you'd be off to the races. You'd be gloating and making it sound like some glamorous thrill ride."

"But you're apologizing because I didn't."

"Yeah. I was wrong about you. You've changed, I know that."

Jim pulled Hank up short and turned toward Steve. "No, you have no idea." He nudged Hank to go again. "And I know I was a different guy back then, and I wasn't the best guy, but if that's what you thought about me—" He cut himself off with a shake of the head.

"I didn't like you, Jimmy," Steve said from behind him, not having joined him again.

Jim stopped Hank, but didn't turn.

It's late, Hank thought bitterly and yawned. If you stop me one more time, I'll walk you in front of a bus.

So what'd changed? Was he supposed to just let Steve like hanging out with the new Jim? He really hadn't changed that much, same old guy. Was it just pity? Thinking he'd got what he deserved and now everything was okay? Jim thought it over, then laughed. He turned with a grin. "I didn't like the old me much, either."

A gust of wind showered him with dried leaves. Jim pulled his coat tighter as Steve caught up to them.

"So we'll try again? Next time you stop by?"

"Yeah."

"It's late."

Exactly, Hank thought.

"Night," Jim said with a nod. He let Hank lead him down the street.

"See you," Steve said, then walked away.

* * *

"Jimmy," Christie mumbled from the bed, "it's the middle of the night."

"Yeah, I was… out with the guys," he said quietly. It sounded strange and he could barely believe it had happened.

"How'd it go?"

"I don't know." Jim rubbed a hand over his face, exhausted.

Christie sat up.

Jim paused in unbuttoning his shirt. "It was strange, Christie." He shook his head and sat on the side of the bed with his back to her. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his fists, trying to explain. "It didn't go so well at first. It's hard being resented for who you were." He shuddered when the words escaped his mouth. He hadn't even been thinking of how Christie resented him.

"Were you really out with the guys?" She slid over and put a hand on his back.

"Smell me," he said and held an arm out to her. "And smell Hank." He turned to her with a smile. "The three of us could take a shower together tomorrow."

She pulled away, but he could tell she was smiling when she turned down his proposition. "Hank is all yours."

Hank gave an offended whine and changed position on his doggie bed.

"Goodnight," Jim said and leaned back for a goodnight kiss.

Jim stared at the ceiling for another hour after sliding into bed before he'd finally replayed the evening enough in his head to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter five**

"Hey, Jim," Marty said as Jim walked in bright and early Monday morning.

"You live here, Marty?" Jim asked with a smile.

"Fax."

Jim changed course. He abandoned his trip to the locker room. "From the hospital?"

"Looks like a match. Can you read it?"

Jim pulled out his laptop. "If I scan it into my computer." He hooked the scanner up.

"Here."

Jim heard the papers slide across his desk. "Thanks." He quickly started scanning the pages. "What's the name on this?"

"Samantha Wilkins."

"Hey, guys," Karen said.

"Hey," Jim said.

"Dunbar got a match," Marty said.

"There's nothing you can't learn if you talk to Tamika long enough." Jim heard Karen slide up next to his desk and take the papers he'd already scanned. She picked up each one as he finished.

Jim couldn't help but feel jealous. Karen and Marty already knew more than he did, while it would probably take an hour for his computer to regurgitate everything to him.

"I thought your computer couldn't read handwritten things?" Karen murmured.

Jim froze as he pulled the last page from his scanner. "It can't."

Karen snatched the page out of his hand.

"Is it all handwritten?"

"Only half."

Karen pulled up her desk chair. Jim sighed and sat. He listened as Marty scooted up in his chair. "I didn't get to finish," Marty explained when Jim looked over at him.

"I'm skipping the labs, unless one of you went to med school and cares to translate," Karen said.

"Not me," Marty said.

Jim heard Karen sifting through the papers.

"Looks like she had thorough prenatal care."

Jim tossed her a look as skeptical as her voice sounded. "Maybe it's not the same person?"

"Maybe…"

Marty slid his chair back to his desk. "I was running her name. I'll finish that while you two look the records over."

Jim waited patiently, but he had to grip the arms of his chair tightly to gain that patience. Karen was reading the reports silently to herself, picking out bits of information to share. He just had to wait for her to find something she deemed important enough to share.

"Can we have the coroner compare this to Samantha's record? Maybe they can match the blood type or something," Jim suggested.

"Yeah, I'll send a copy," Karen said.

"The coroner already faxed her report," Marty said. "Here."

Karen reached out for the papers, then slid back to her desk. "I'll see what I can compare."

Jim stood and gathered his coat and bag to head to the locker room.

"Where are you going?" Karen asked.

"Be right back."

"'Kay."

Jim sighed. Maybe after he got a look at what he'd scanned into his computer he'd feel better.

"There's no such person as Samantha Wilkins. Insurance company's never heard of her," Marty said when Jim got back. "The insurance number goes back to a Josiah Wilkins. Says in the record that he's her husband. Nothing was ever official legally, though. Not that I can find."

Jim settled into his chair. "Josiah, huh?"

"Tom's looking into him. I'm still digging on Samantha." Marty leaned back in his chair until it creaked. "If that doesn't pan out, we'll have you call that kid again, see what she knows."

"Hey." Karen's chair slid across the floor so quickly she had to grab Jim's desk to stop it. She slid a paper onto his desk and tapped it with her fingernail. "She was diabetic." She snatched the paper back and waited.

"So?" Jim finally asked.

Fisk walked out of his office. "ME just called. The girl wasn't just pregnant. She had a strange substance in her blood, possibly the same as the other DOA, but they can't get a complete match. They're thinking it reacted differently, being different people. Or maybe it had been messed with a little." Fisk stood and waited for someone to pipe up with a theory.

"New street drug?" Marty suggested.

"Boss," Karen said. "If this really is Samantha," she waved the pages of the medical record, "she was diabetic."

"So?" Fisk asked, echoing Jim's comment.

"When Dunbar and I checked her out, I thought it was just chocolate under her fingernails. But if she was diabetic, it shouldn't have been."

"Maybe she was cheating on her diet?" Tom asked. "All women do."

"I don't think so." Karen shook her head. "Can ME run a test on whatever was under her nails?"

"I'll give 'em a call," Fisk said.

"Hey, Karen," Tom said. "You're starting to sound like Dunbar and all his whacked out theories."

Jim found himself grinning.

Karen turned to him. "I don't think that was a compliment," she said quietly.

_

* * *

_

"So what's your theory?" Jim asked as they walked down to the ME's office to ask her about the substance in their DOAs' blood samples.

"I know how you must feel now," Karen said. "Everyone giving you crap all the time."

Jim laughed. Tom had bought a bar of chocolate and left it on Karen's desk. Marty kept making comments about manicures and getting things under his fingernails. "You get used to it."

"I am not obsessed with fingernails, okay?"

"I know." Jim smiled down at her. "What's your theory?"

"Samantha's not that messy of an eater. Do you know how hard it is to get chocolate under your fingernails?"

Jim gave an indecisive frown. "I've never been that much of a chocolate fan."

"It looked more like when people get into a fight and scrape off skin under their nails. I don't know about you, but how many people do you know who—"

"Fight tooth and nail with their dessert?"

"Exactly."

"Maybe she was really hungry."

"Jim," Karen complained.

He grinned. "Karen, relax. I'm with you on this one."

"Really?" she asked.

"Really. But you don't need my approval."

"Here we are." She knocked on the office door.

"My intern has a theory he wants to run by you," the ME said as Jim and Karen gathered around the body.

Jim crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter. Karen elbowed him and he glanced at her.

"Don't look so skeptical," she whispered.

Jim made his face blank. He hadn't realized his feelings were showing, but interns had never been his favorite staff members. They were always trying to show off their brilliance, but had no field experience to back it up. He had to give it up to them for enthusiasm, but other than that he could live without them.

"So here's my theory," the kid said. He sounded young, probably still in medical school, which didn't do anything for Jim's confidence. "My brilliant colleague here surmised that whatever the substance is, it starts to dissolve immediately on contact with human body fluid. The stuff under her fingernails? It was half dissolved. Meaning, it came out of her body."

Karen gave a disgusted grunt. Jim almost laughed, but he had to admit, he wasn't sure he wanted to know any more.

"So here's what I'm thinking. Someone jammed this substance in her mouth—it's still in her teeth, a little—and she scraped it off her tongue, trying to save herself. But it dissolved so quickly, she was a goner."

"Astutely put, thank you," the ME said.

The intern moved away.

"But I do concur," she said. "It's the most plausible explanation I can think of. Whatever it is, it looks homemade. Someone with a background in chemistry or pharmaceutics. Someone who knows what they're doing when it comes to poisons. And would have access to the chemicals needed to make them."

"So it's a poison?" Karen asked.

"Looks like it. I still can't isolate enough of it to trace anything. We're sending the rest of it to an expert, but I don't want you to get your hopes up. It's unlikely, given the nature of the material, that we'll be able to learn anything substantial."

Jim took Karen's arm and they headed back upstairs. Karen was quiet while they walked.

"So?" Jim asked. "Your theory panned out."

"I don't know how much good it's going to do us."

"It's something. It tells us we're going in the right direction."

"You think so?"

"I know so."

* * *

"Josiah Wilkins," Tom said as Jim and Karen walked back into the squad. "There's a chance he's the infamous Uncle Josiah. Age 34. Disbarred. Went to med school for a while, but dropped out. Rumor is he's a kind of genius. Jack of all trades. Good at business and persuasion."

"What's the relation to Artez?"

"None."

"Any other connection to Samantha besides the medical record?"

"Nope. Supposedly he doesn't have any family. Dad died when Josiah was seventeen, mom kicked the bucket the same year, suicide. Both of them. But—" Tom leaned back in his chair. Jim sat on the edge of Marty's desk, waiting. "Only reason I know that is looking up the parents from his birth record. There's no mention of Josiah or any children in either of the obituaries. Can't find any school records after he was fourteen…"

"Doesn't exist?" Karen asked.

"No employment record, nothing until he opened a law practice five years ago."

"What about law school?" Jim asked.

"Apparently he never went. That's why he was disbarred."

"Can you get disbarred if you don't have a degree?" Karen asked.

"Picky, picky. He filed a counter lawsuit, said he home schooled. But he dropped it after a week."

"Then he went to med school," Jim prompted.

"Apparently he's not much for formal educations, but word is, he knows where it's all at. Smart guy."

"And his records at medical school?"

"Faked. None of the info leads anywhere. Addresses never existed. How he even got in without a degree or taking the MCAT, we're still looking into that."

"Does he have any friends?"

"Not that I can find. Never held a job, no co-workers. Family all died. But he's something of a legend in some circles."

"Which ones?"

"Depends. Legal consultant to the rich and the poor. Medical consultant to the poor. Unconfirmed, he's trying to get someone elected mayor, working the background from the underground."

"Where can you find this guy?" Karen asked.

"Can't. No permanent address, no phone number, no cell phone, no FBI file, no driver's license, no hits on his social security number…"

"Nothing," Jim said.

"Precisely."

The more nothing they got, the more it was starting to feel like something.

* * *

Jim was tapping a pencil on his desk, trying to think. Finding Samantha dead, realizing he'd never get to talk to her, finding out she was pregnant, poisoned, and shot, he was having trouble thinking.

"Now what?" Marty asked.

Jim stopped tapping the pencil and looked up.

"Well?" Marty said.

"Nothing."

"What do you mean, nothing?"

"Nothing, Marty. It's when you can't put anything together. When nothing makes sense." He sighed and rubbed his lip, thinking. "I want to talk to Artez again. Maybe he knew something about this other guy Samantha was seeing."

"Maybe. Maybe there was some jealousy between 'em."

"Or maybe this phantom uncle doesn't even exist. Maybe they just found a way to scam insurance companies with this name. Maybe lots of people have used this name. One went to med school. One set up a law practice… Tamika didn't remember him."

"But," Karen said, "Tamika said the other kids still go see him."

"If he is real, he's been a busy guy," Marty said.

"Let's pull Artez, see what he knows."

* * *

"Well?" Artez asked.

Jim motioned for him to sit. He leaned up against the ledge by the window in the interview room, his arms crossed, his shades in place, his face impassive. "Don't tell me you didn't see this one coming," he said.

"What?"

"Your girlfriend, Samantha. Did you know she was pregnant again?"

Silence filled the room.

"I'll take that as a no," Jim said and nodded for Karen to continue.

From the other side of the room Karen asked, "Tell us, who was the father? Clem's father, and the new baby."

"Me," Artez said.

"I don't think so. You want us to run a DNA test?"

"Clem's my son."

"Are you really sure of that, or is that just what you're going to tell us?"

"Clem is my son. And this baby woulda been, too." He sounded dejected, knowing about the dead baby.

"You raised him, so he's yours?" Jim asked. "But he's not your flesh and blood."

"Why d'you think I'm lyin' about this?"

"Because according to the birth record, you're not the father," Karen said.

"What birth record?"

"The one at the hospital Samantha went to. The medical record, the birth certificate, the insurance record."

"Insurance? We don't have—"

"She was a high risk pregnancy, did you know that? Because she was diabetic."

"She was diabetic, but the pregnancy went fine. She didn't need no doctors. She didn't go once."

"Are you sure?" Jim asked.

"We didn't have insurance! How could she 'ave gone? Doctors don't do charity.

If they did, we'd be fine. I'd be able to hold a job. I wouldn't have any episodes."

"So where was Samantha getting her medication?" Karen asked. "Diabetes is life-threatening without daily medication."

"I don't know," Artez said in almost a whisper.

Jim moved to sit on the table next to Artez and leaned over close to his face. "Tell us what you know about Josiah."

Artez shied away. "I can't."

"'Cause he'll kill you if you do?" Karen asked.

"No one knows anything about him."

"We know plenty about him," Jim said. "What do you know?"

"He was helping Samantha. He'd get stuff she needed. He's the pastor of her church, for crissakes."

"And the father of her children?" Karen asked skeptically.

"They're my kids!"

"And his name's on the birth certificate because…?" she asked.

"Because maybe he's more respectable than me? Maybe he helped her with the insurance you said she had. He's a good man. A man of God. He wouldn't want her to suffer, so maybe it was all he could do."

Jim stood up and walked away, back to the window.

"We're still going to run that DNA test," Karen said. "Did you know your girlfriend was poisoned?"

"I thought she was shot."

"That little bullet hole?" Jim said. "That wasn't fatal."

"You know anyone who specializes in poisons?" Karen asked as she got the swab kit ready for his DNA sample.

"The only people I know who've killed, they're not smart enough to bother with poison. They're more the type for a knife in the back."

"My kind of people," Karen said.

"Mine, too," Jim said with a grin.

"Open up," Karen ordered.

"Careful where you stick that thing," Artez said.

"Hold still." Artez moved his seat back so it scraped the floor. "You want the blind guy to do it?"

"No."

"Then hold still."

* * *

He's right," Jim said as they left the interview room. His kind of people wouldn't bother with poison."

"Should we drag in her pastor?"

"Right," Jim said sarcastically. "Hey, Reverend, when's the last time you killed someone? And while we're at it, sir, how many people have you impregnated?"

Karen snorted. "One of these days, I'd love to get a preacher in here and ask him that. But not today."

"Jim," Tom said, "I've seen you beat up suspects. I've seen you lie to them, yell at them. I just never thought I'd hear you plan to abuse a man of the cloth."

"We have to plan ahead, Tom," Jim said. "You never know who you'll get in here."

* * *

Jim stopped when he got back to his desk. Marty and Tom had been talking when he walked into the room with his bag, but they started whispering when they saw him. Jim listened a minute, then shook his head. He grabbed Hank's harness and turned toward them, keeping his face as blank as possible. "Guys," he said, "you need to learn to whisper quieter. I can still hear you."

Tom started to protest.

Jim nudged Hank to go. "Goodnight."

"Night, Jim," Marty said.

"Just how much did you hear?" Tom asked.

Jim stopped and turned back. "You got Simone's phone number. You haven't asked her out yet, though."

"I just… Since you warned me about her and all…"

Jim shook his head. "I warned you to keep you hands to yourself while you have a girlfriend. I don't even remember Simone."

"Look, but don't touch," Marty said. "Guess that leaves you out of the game, huh, Jim?"

"Guess so." Jim turned away. "And for future reference, I can't read lips."

* * *

It wasn't often Jim came home early from work, but there'd been nothing else to learn—he wanted to change and get to the gym, work off some of this excess energy that was building up. He wrinkled his nose when he walked through the door of the apartment, the stench of nail polish hovering in the air.

"Christie?" he called, then waited. No answer.

He left Hank in harness, just going to drop off his bag and the box the doorman had given him that had been delivered for Christie, then change and leave. The box was heavy, only about two feet by one foot, but it could have held a solid block of silver, or maybe a bunch of old issues of Christie's magazine with her by-line. He decided to put it on the coffee table where she'd be sure to see it and he wouldn't trip over it.

He dropped the box on the table and slid it over a little. It sounded like something small fell over, but the table was often littered with tiny candles and other decorative items Christie got from her interviewees as thank you tokens. He just left it. He hated knick-knacks. He always had—useless and meaningless, he wasn't the most sentimental guy when it came to things like that. Pictures, souvenirs, sometimes they were okay, but decorations he could do without. And pictures now had also lost their allure, he had to admit.

"Hi," Christie said when Jim walked into the bedroom. "Is it that late already?"

Jim froze. Sounded like she hadn't been expecting him. "Nah," he said with a nonchalant shrug. "I'm a little early. Thought I'd stop by the gym."

"Okay, have fun."

Jim nodded. "The doorman gave me a package for you." He shrugged out of his suit jacket and laid it out on the bed, then started on his tie.

"Oh, good!" She brushed past him on the way out of the room. "I was just about to run down to pick it up." Jim followed slowly as she talked so she wouldn't have to yell across the apartment. "I was on the phone when you got home. We're having problems scheduling a client." She gasped. "Jimmy!"

He jumped forward and hurried across the room.

"Can't you be more careful? Didn't you notice you—" she cut herself off.

Jim wracked his brain, but it didn't take much of a genius to realize the smell of nail polish had gotten stronger. He was getting light headed from the fumes at this close of a proximity. The small clatter—he must have knocked over a bottle of nail polish. "Sorry," he said. "I'll get it." He hurried for the kitchen as Christie moved things off the table.

"_Paper_ towels!" she yelled when he grabbed the hand towel.

Must be nice to be able to see what someone else is doing from across the room, he thought bitterly and tossed the towel on the counter. He reached under the sink for the roll of paper towels. It took a minute—he didn't have much use for the cleaners under the sink so Christie didn't try to keep a consistent order.

Her anger was contagious. He'd had to touch everything in the cupboard, carefully so he wouldn't knock anything over, because she didn't keep things in order. He'd spilled something—but she was the one who'd left it out. It couldn't all be his fault and he hated it when people got mad at him because he couldn't see and they'd been negligent. It wasn't fair. Wasn't he punished enough just by being blind that he didn't need people yelling at him? Besides—"Wasn't the lid on?" he snapped.

"The phone rang," she said, flustered. "I set it and left. I wasn't expecting you home so early."

"I'll call before I come home," he said coldly. "That way you know." He knelt next to the coffee table with a few towels in hand.

"Jimmy!" she warned.

But he already knew. His knee slid in something wet.

He closed his eyes and tried to breathe. He wasn't going to get angry. But no oxygen was reaching his brain untainted by the smell of nail polish, no thoughts untainted by the anger in Christie's voice. It wasn't fair. She could see and he was the one kneeling in wet nail polish and getting reamed.

He ignored the polish on the floor and gently touched the table, feeling for the spill.

"Let me help," Christie said after a moment, her voice quiet and soft.

He didn't want her feeling sorry for him. Maybe the anger had been better. He didn't know what it was like for her, standing up there watching someone carefully trying to clean up a mess he couldn't see. But he did know how it was for him, his knees wet and ruined, his lungs burning with the smell of chemicals, having to struggle to clean up a mess that wasn't all his fault, of a substance that didn't want to come up and was probably leaving behind a thick residue, and having his wife standing over him feeling nothing but pity. "It was my mess," he said. "I'll get it." He swept his hand over the table. The box was gone. "Go ahead and open your package."

"But—"

"Go!"

"Jimmy, I'll help—"

"Because you know I won't be able to get it all up on my own? You're afraid it'll ruin the table?"

"No," she said in almost a whisper. He hadn't heard her move, still standing there in whatever designer clothes she'd worn to work, and her fancy high heels. "Because there's two of us."

* * *

Christie was perfect. Christie was infallible. He scrubbed the floor over and over until he felt no residue of polish. Christie had left him alone when he insisted. Now he wouldn't be able to yell at her for leaving an open bottle of nail polish on the table in the first place, because she had offered to help clean up. It was his fault. It had taken the two of them to make the mess, but he'd refused her help in cleaning up.

Because he didn't want her standing there watching him. Because he didn't want her pity. Because he was angry at himself for knocking it over and not checking to see what it was right away, before the mess could spread.

Oh, poor Christie, how do you handle it? He'd heard her friends and co-workers asking how she put up with him, with his blindness. They, at least, didn't feel an ounce of pity for him. But they didn't help anything by making Christie into a martyr.

Just how bad could it be? He was the one who actually was blind, after all. How bad could it really be for Christie? All she had to do was stand back and watch, while he lived it, day after day after day. She could go out and do the same things as always, talk to the same people without problem. He, on the other hand, had a different job, he was on modified assignment pretty much, he couldn't even find his friends, didn't know who they were anymore. He couldn't walk around without Hank.

He paused in the scrubbing. He couldn't resent Hank. Hank was there for him, helped him more than anyone, listened, kept him from getting run over by buses. No person had ever saved Jim's life, yet Hank did it repeatedly, pushing his furry body against Jim's legs to keep him out of harm's way. Jim had no doubt that if Hank had been at the bank, he would have sacrificed himself, throwing himself into the hail of bullets.

But Jim could resent having to rely on Hank like he did.

Maybe he didn't want to need Christie's help and wouldn't accept it so he wouldn't have to resent her. He wished he could tell her that, how he felt about her and him and Hank, might make her feel better. But these feelings, he couldn't put them into words, just a momentary anger at the dog who tried to make his life easier, then remorse, and feelings of pity for his wife for having to put up with him. He'd never been an easy man to live with.

Christie was no saint. She was still Miss Perfect, the lady guys stared at and drooled over when they realized her husband couldn't see. He wondered how often she flirted back.

He missed himself. He used to be as outwardly perfect as she still was. Crowds of friends, though none exceptionally close—Terry'd been the closest he'd had to a best friend since he'd been a kid. He still didn't know how Terry had managed to wheedle his way past Jim's normal defenses. They'd been partners for three years, not very long it seemed, and suddenly Jim was a godfather. He had a buddy to watch the games with and go out with after work.

Yet he'd never opened up to Terry. Christie and Terry were the two closest people in his life, yet they were also the two he kept most at an arm's length, never talking about his feelings or problems. They'd been drawn to him, to his strength, they'd come into his life and he barely knew how they got there.

Jim stuffed the soiled towels in the garbage, along with the mostly empty bottle of nail polish. He didn't bother to change, because that would have meant going into the bedroom, where Christie had taken refuge. She was probably in there, crying about him yelling at her to leave him be. He left the top two buttons of his shirt undone and slung on his coat. "Hank," he said quietly and tapped his thigh. He grabbed the harness and left, thinking of slamming the door on the way out, but caught it at the last second. He shut it quietly; let her cry and wonder if he was still out there, too scared to come out and check.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

He'd always hated treadmills. Always. But it really was a good way to work off frustration. He'd lost again today, couldn't concentrate. Same sparring partner as last time, he should have been more prepared, better able to read the guy's moves.

Jim hadn't taken up karate until after he'd gone blind, but he was usually proud of the skill he'd picked up in such a short time. He was learning a lot—private instruction—and the instructor often threw in moves from other disciplines that he thought Jim could use or enjoy: tae kwon do, jujitsu, and hapkido. His balance was getting better—he'd had a terrible time when he first lost his sight, tripping over the smallest thing would send him sprawling. Even now he occasionally had problems with that, if he wasn't totally in tune with the environment and his movements. Karate was teaching him to focus better. He was also getting a lot better at hand-to-hand combat.

Which he might need, he chided himself. He was his only weapon now and needed to concentrate during the lessons.

Christie hadn't known Jim back in his fighting days, back when his hands were hard and calloused and his face usually sported some bruise or cut. She barely knew about that time in his life and how sport fighting had helped keep him sane enough that he didn't get into fights outside the ring. That was how he'd always worked off his frustrations, dropping by the gym and putting on a pair of gloves.

He'd felt that same freedom from frustration the day he and Karen had gone to interview the manager at the Amsterdam and he'd pummeled the speed bag for a minute. He hadn't been showing off, though he knew Karen was oddly impressed and intrigued. He'd really only wanted to know if he could still do it. He wouldn't be much up against another boxer in a ring, but going up against a bag was a piece of cake.

He'd inquired at the gym he usually went to, found out they had bags. The kid at the desk, Jim had heard him laugh, heard in his voice how he was humoring the blind guy, showing him where the punching bags were. Instead of getting mad, Jim made himself think back—if he wasn't the blind guy in question, wouldn't he have chuckled? He and Terry would have made jokes about it all day.

That was sometimes the only way to deal with people, to force himself to realize he was no better, then to make the jokes himself and cut them to the chase so he wouldn't be caught off-guard. "Hey, Terry," the old Dunbar would have said, "let's get front row tickets to fight night, see if this blind guy shows up." They would have snickered and made all sorts of crude jokes, then they probably would have bought tickets to the next big fight—any excuse to go. Christie wouldn't have understood. At first he used to tell her all the stupid reasons he and the guys had for going out—there was this guy at the gym, we wanna see if he's a real fighter, can't see his opponent, should be interesting—and Christie would have shaken her head. She might have even reprimanded him, said she was ashamed, they were grown-ups, couldn't they act like it? So Jim had stopped telling her why he was going out, just going out with the guys, that's all the more he'd say.

Now that the tables were turned, Jim wondered if Christie'd been right. He'd just needed to grow up.

He wondered if, now, he'd make jokes like that. Not about a blind guy boxing, but about anything else he'd have joked about with Terry. Where did he draw the line?

Before, he and Terry would have gone to the fight. The seed would have been planted—the is the fight to watch for—so they'd have watched for this guy to show up, making cracks all night: that fighter must not have seen that one coming; good thing he can't see the blood, what with all the blood in his eyes; you think they'll let his dog fight tag-team? The whole time he would have been thinking the blind fighter was some has-been, got hurt during a fight, knocked his lights out—permanently—and he just didn't know when to quit.

Jim found the parallel to himself shocking, but he wasn't a has-been, not yet. It hurt to realize what he'd have thought about any other guy in this situation—Terry included; he would have been just like Marty, probably worse.

He'd been using the bags a lot lately. It wasn't exactly the same as going up against an opponent who could beat him back, but it felt good. Slowly the pent-up frustrations he'd had for over a year were beginning to leak out and, like Galloway had said, he was beginning to feel like himself again.

But he thought as he stepped off the treadmill to head for the bags, he would never let himself go all the way back to that guy. Why couldn't Christie see that he had changed?

* * *

Jimmy'd been different for a long time. Christie couldn't quite put a finger on when it had started. They'd been married five years and for a while everything had been great. They'd been so in love. Or so they'd thought. She wondered now if it had been just a passing infatuation, like the high school quarterback and the head cheerleader. They'd fulfilled their time together, but now maybe it was time to move on.

She'd been thinking that for a couple years, wondering just what this marriage was built on.

Jim had been able to see for the first four years of their marriage. She considered that the normal part of their life. He'd been the bad boy and she had to admit she'd found that irresistible, even if she really didn't like it when he started fights. She couldn't curb that part of him. She wanted the bad boy image with the choir boy mind. She knew that now. Hindsight being 20/20.

Christie knew after a couple years Jim had begun to feel stifled. Or something. He really wasn't comfortable in her world, nor she in his. He didn't like to go to the upper crust parties with the stuffy people she wanted to make a good impression on. They'd look at him and sort of approve, but he had these rough edges. He'd never fit in.

She fit in better with his crowd. She could mingle and talk and his friends could appreciate her stories of all the people she'd gotten to meet through her job. She just normally didn't have time to spend—she had things to do. Her life was going somewhere.

Maybe being married was holding her back, even though it looked good on her resume; people respected a married woman more than a single girl.

Christie had known right away when Jim met someone else. She wasn't stupid. She knew her husband. She just didn't know what to do about it. Get a divorce? Forgive him?

She knew because he'd started comparing her. Her, the one he'd always said was incomparable. But suddenly he'd look at her oddly, closely, stare, like he was appraising her value and looking for imperfections. She'd seen it in his eyes, that there was someone he found better in so many ways.

But he never left her, tried to keep it a secret. She didn't know why, but guessed there was a part of him that was still in love with her, and another part that was held in check by the marriage vows. His parents had never divorced, though she knew they hadn't had a happy marriage. Jim had probably never even thought of divorcing her.

Christie didn't know what to do—they'd only fought about it once and she'd tried to leave. He talked her into staying, so sincere. He'd broken it off with… Anne. The girl even had a name. Anne, so clean-cut and wholesome sounding. Christie'd wanted to know just what was so great about Anne, so much better than her—

"I can't talk about _that_," Jim had said, perplexed, given her this look he had. He often couldn't talk about things with her, and even though she'd realized how wrong, how perverse, she'd pushed. "Christie, it's not your fault," he'd said instead of answering.

"Then _why_?" she'd yelled, tears on her cheeks.

"I don't know!" he'd yelled back. "Because it's wrong! I was wrong, it's wrong."

They'd dropped it—weeks passed, then a couple months. Christie had started to look at Jim differently. They weren't spending time together, he was throwing himself into work—she knew the fight wasn't over.

Then he'd been shot. Of all the things to hear to put perspective on all the shallow things that make up a life. Your husband's been shot. The shock was so great she'd burst into tears. Her thoughts hadn't been about how distant he'd been, or how he'd had an affair. They weren't even thoughts of how she'd been wondering if she even loved him anymore.

Jimmy, that had been her first thought. The Jimmy she'd fallen in love with, the one who was always there to protect her and take care of her. The one who could look into her soul.

The one she'd tried to change. Couldn't she just accept him? Wasn't that what a marriage was? It wasn't about finding a guy who was just good enough and trying to tame him. Jimmy had always been such a good guy—why'd she try to change him? She'd made him run.

Jimmy. If he died now…

But he hadn't. She'd felt like fate had given them a second chance. She'd be better. And he would be, too.

Until she saw him lying there, unconscious. For days she'd cried. Whatever relief she'd felt had disappeared and she felt scared, really scared, for the first time in her life.

The fear deepened when the doctors explained about the damage and the possibilities of injuries he could have sustained.

She wasn't getting her husband back. It wasn't a new lease on life. It was like a horror movie, never knowing what was going to crop up next. How would they survive if he never regained consciousness? If he did, would he be the same man? And would she be able to forgive him?

Yes!—Theoretically. Oh, she wanted to, wanted to beg God, promise she would forgive Jimmy. When it was a question of him living or dying, how could she even think of not forgiving him?

But she couldn't. She promised herself she'd just wait and see, make sure he was okay. Maybe when he re-evaluated his life—how could he not when he'd almost died—he'd find no place for her. She'd wait and see what he thought.

He couldn't see her. She was standing in the doorway and he was sitting up in bed staring at the hallway. The doctors had warned her before she went in, which was why she'd stopped at the door. She hadn't expected him to be awake, wasn't sure what she would say.

"Who's there?" he demanded, his eyes narrowing.

She hadn't been able to answer. The anger in his face terrified her. He looked like he'd kill the first person he got his hands on. He looked like he already had and it hadn't helped.

He looked vulnerable. Jimmy, vulnerable?

"It's you, Christie, isn't it?" he guessed. "I heard you walking down the hall."

She'd nodded, not realizing. She could hardly believe he couldn't see; he was staring right at her.

"Answer me!"

Her Jim almost never yelled. When he was angry he got quiet. He was always calm. Yelling meant fear. That scared her. Jimmy wasn't the type to be afraid.

He'd lashed out with the arm not hooked to an IV and he'd reached for something on the nightstand, spilling water, knocking over a vase of flowers. His hand had finally managed to wrap around a plastic cup and he lobbed it at the door.

She stood there another moment in fear as he stared at her. His eyes were wide, like he wasn't sure what he'd thrown or where it had landed. Like he was having second thoughts about who he'd thrown it at.

She looked at the dripping nightstand and realized every container within his reach was plastic and unbreakable.

If this was how he reacted to someone standing in the doorway, she couldn't imagine how bad it must have been when he first found out he couldn't see.

She'd slipped out of her high heels, picked them up, and walked away. They couldn't do anything for each other that day.

It had been difficult, sitting at home, clearing away knick-knacks and breakables while he was rehab. She'd been to the hospital several times to see him while they waited to make sure he was okay. Neither of them had ever mentioned her first visit when she hadn't said anything. She hated it because she knew that Jimmy was probably torn deep down between knowing she was there, and the doubts he must have felt about being sure someone was there when he couldn't see them. She knew he wouldn't bring it up and risk being wrong. He also wouldn't bring it up in case he was right. All the implications of his wife just standing there staring at him when he couldn't see.

He'd come back from rehab quieter, more reserved. He'd made a decision, he said, he was going to beat this thing and go back to work. Sure there were things he couldn't do anymore, but he had a new perspective on the world.

It amazed her, the way he'd come home and could walk around the apartment without bumping into anything. The way he could feed himself. Get dressed in the morning.

She'd gone downstairs and cried in the stairwell. She wasn't supposed to feel proud that he could feed himself. And relieved. Relieved that he wouldn't be helpless. She couldn't handle him being helpless.

But could he really go back to work? She'd nearly lost him to that job once, and now he had a handicap, even if he wouldn't admit it. If something were to happen to him again…

They'd stopped talking then. He wouldn't talk about rehab any more than he'd bring up his time in the Gulf. He was learning Braille, learning his way around New York, buying gadgets to make him self-sufficient. He never let on whether or not it was hard for him to get through the day—he just went ahead and did things. All she could do was stand back and watch him struggle—if he didn't do it himself, he'd never learn. Things had slowly gotten back to normal. He'd always been reluctant to share what he'd learned that day—ashamed maybe? To let her know he'd relearned to brush his teeth and tie a tie?

Hank had come into their lives right before he'd gone back to work. Christie'd always been scared of dogs and Hank was huge. Lying there on his pillow in the corner of their bedroom like he was master of their lives. Hank knew she was scared and she and the dog had never been able to come to terms with each other. He followed Jimmy around. If he found himself alone in a room with her, he'd leave.

And she was jealous. Hank knew how to help her husband. She'd always had to stand by while Jim struggled, but if Hank helped, he'd get a pat on the head and a thank you. If she tried to help, she'd get yelled at.

Slowly things had been getting back to normal. Jimmy was working and putting himself to use. He was busy, something he had needed so terribly. He was home more often, the apartment being a haven where everything was always in place. She was busy at work. She had a vague premonition that if she could forgive him straying that once, their relationship would be more normal than it had been in years. He really had changed—he would be around, he'd learn to love her again. He talked sometimes, listened, humored her. It was like he'd regained the Jim he'd been before Anne, when they first met.

Sometimes Christie could close her eyes and lie in his arms and be five years younger. He was as strong as always and she felt safe. She missed the carefree side of him. That's what he'd really lost, the ability to just kick back.

It had been six years since she'd met him. He'd been so outgoing, his own man, liked to go out with the guys for a beer after work, liked to be the center of attention around people he knew, but to blend into the woodwork around people he didn't. She'd always admired how he'd come in one night and tell her this horror of a case, and then a couple days later he'd be working it around in his head, letting all the pieces fall in place, and then he'd just know. It had been awe inspiring and she'd respected the way he could help people. Her own superhero.

It was the rough edges she couldn't handle. A bar fight here, a bout of temper there. Christie wondered how many women married a man they loved, felt safe with, admired, but couldn't understand.

It was as much her stubbornness as his that made it difficult to work through.

They just couldn't communicate. That hadn't changed.

And with Jimmy back at work, even though it was a new squad, they were the same old cases, all those dead people, and he was right back out there like he'd always been. It was almost the same Jim she'd first met… He just held her even further away to prove he could take care of her and of himself, while all she wanted was to get closer.

She was till awed, still in love. But she wanted something else. She'd changed, too. They were headed in different directions and she was afraid they were getting too far away.

* * *

Jim felt for the next button that would send the treadmill up to a run. He'd pummeled the bags until his knuckles bled, but he still had this knot in his stomach. Too much energy, too much anger. He was Jim Dunbar, and Jim Dunbar didn't make mistakes, didn't spend an hour on his knees cleaning up nail polish.

Back to the treadmill, a vain attempt to wear himself down to the point where he could reason with himself.

Galloway would have had a good explanation about why Jim had always tried to hold Christie and Terry at arm's length. Probably something to do with how he'd grown up, how his parents had been. He wasn't sure Galloway was much of a follower of Freud, but to Jim this sounded fairly plausible. His parents hadn't been much for deep conversation—how could Christie expect it of Jim, of the boy who'd grown up keeping everything safely inside?

Especially now. Before, he'd just been a man. He'd had problems, he'd had strengths, but he'd just been a normal man. He hadn't had anything to keep inside that any other man didn't have.

But now he felt he did. Looking back, there'd been times he could have let Christie in. Cases were just cases, safe to talk about, though he'd kept how they made him feel to himself. Now, it wasn't just about cases and how they made him feel. Now it was how they equalized him as a man, or how they showed him he wasn't the same. Now everything he did he was trying to prove he was the same as before, even as everything he did proved to him how his life had changed.

He couldn't share that with Christie.

Terry'd been a friend, but he'd made one mistake which Jim couldn't forgive him for.

Christie was his wife, and Jim had made one mistake she couldn't forgive him for.

It was all the same, it didn't matter who was right. Jim couldn't imagine Terry ever again being the old Terry he'd been partners with for three years.

That old Terry had been exuberant the day he'd brought his son home for them hospital. He'd been so proud, strutting around, showing off pictures, buying cigars and beers. That's the way Jim would always see the old Terry, the man who no longer existed. Jim couldn't imagine the hell Terry's wife must be having trying to reconcile the old Terry with the new one.

Terry had just gotten married when Jim first met him. The boss had called them both in at the 77. Terry was the rookie detective, just out of uniform. Jim had already been there almost seven years as a detective. The boss had pulled Jim aside, said, "Give him hell, he's a little wet behind the ears." Jim had happily obliged. When he'd joined, he hadn't had an easy time, had to make his way, prove his worth. If he hadn't, he'd have never learned. But always having to prove himself, watching his superiors and learning, he'd caught on quickly.

It took him six months before he eased up on Terry. Terry was a nice guy, honest, enthusiastic, a peacemaker, worshipped his wife. Terry would always be a family man. Jim always had thought of him as a big teddy bear. "How does a teddy bear hold his own on the scene of a homicide?" Jim had always asked. Terry'd get so serious at the crime scenes. Each one would hit him differently, it was like he took it as a personal offense when people were killed.

Jim had known Terry had trouble detaching himself from the crimes. He was great at interviews, so personable. But the crime itself would tear him apart, put a haunted look in his eye.

Three years later, Terry'd seen enough dead bodies, but he'd never seen anyone killed. Jim had known that would affect him more than other cops he'd worked with, just because that's who Terry was. But Jim had faith, watched Terry out there with him, helping other cops to safety. Jim saw the look on Terry's face when the one cop he'd been helping was shot—willed Terry to keep going. There'd been nothing Jim could have done for him then. Just had to trust Terry to take a moment, reconcile, stand up, do his job, and analyze the meaning of life later.

"Take the shot, Terry!"

The thought of stepping out there, killing someone himself… Terry hadn't had time yet to process watching someone die. He couldn't step up and commit the same act.

Jim had known that deep down for three years. He'd hoped Terry could handle it, but he'd been wrong.

He should have been harder on him. He should have made Terry handle it instead of appealing to his better nature. He shouldn't have trusted him to come through when the time came. Terry'd been a good man. Jim never should have let up, though. He'd been too soft.

Jim had always gotten things backwards. He'd always been too hard on his wife. He expected her to be able to handle this. To just stand back and let him be. Even though he'd known for six years that wasn't the way she worked; he needed to ease up on her.

Christie'd always been a little soft. Hell, she was soft as Charmin. She'd grown up privileged. Jim had met her at a gathering, she'd come with a friend of a friend to this little shindig of 100 or so people at the little crappy apartment Jim had shared with another guy on the squad. He'd been infatuated at first sight, but he knew she was out of his league. She planned to work her way up to editor of this fashion magazine she kept talking about. She had aspirations.

Immediately he'd shown her what a hard-ass he was, trying to impress her with how different they were, how manly he was. Talking cop stuff. Collaring perps, using the lingo. He'd kept constant eye contact and she hadn't looked away. He'd be talking to someone else, but he'd be staring into her eyes.

He grinned at her during one gruesome tale and said, "What, you can't handle it?" Devilishly charming, that's what he'd been going for. She bought it.

Anytime she'd grimace at one of his stories, he'd say the same thing.

Right after he'd gotten home from rehab, he'd broken something, a plate or a glass. Had shown he'd become clumsy, wasn't the same self-assured man as before, right when he'd been trying to prove to her he was back to normal.

He had felt her shrink back, but he'd brushed it off, told her coolly that he'd handle it, no problem. He'd cut himself cleaning up and she'd cried, fought him to let her help. He'd argued. Grabbed her hands to keep them away from the glass, deliberately stared over her head. If he couldn't prove he was the same, he'd show her what it was really like, see if she was strong enough to handle the truth.

He knew blood from the gash on his hand was dripping onto her hands, which had never been stained with someone else's blood. He'd been able to feel her gaze falling to their entwined hands, rising up to his face, searching his eyes. Again he said, more spitefully than playful, "What, you can't handle it?"

She'd already been crying, but then she started sobbing. He refused to let go of her hands, wouldn't hold her and comfort her. She'd sunk to the floor and he'd knelt in front of her. "Look at me," he said. "Tell me what you see."

"I don't know," she said, gasping for breath, trying to pull away.

"Tell me."

"I can't."

"Is it that bad?"

"Yes!"

At the time he'd thought it was the blindness she'd been talking about, but later, when he'd cooled down and forgiven himself for being clumsy, he realized she'd meant the cruelness, how he hadn't been the same person she'd fallen in love with. She couldn't have answered what she was seeing, knowing it wasn't the same man. Quietly he'd gone to her and asked if he was right, she confirmed. He'd apologized, promised never to do it again.

He'd told her it wasn't going to be the only time he was going to make a mess of things—in the apartment or in their relationship. He'd told her he could handle being blind and he'd take care of that, but she'd need to forgive him herself, he couldn't take care of that for her. She hadn't answered. He thought Anne was too fresh in her memory.

He had handled the blindness, mostly alone. Looking back on that afternoon, though, he wondered which of them had broken their promise—if she hadn't let him handle the blindness, or if he'd just been cruel again.

When a relationship boiled down to that, it didn't matter whether or not they loved each other.

* * *

The closer he got the apartment, the worse he felt. For yelling at Christie, for not letting her help, for being imperfect in the first place. How could he explain that to her? All he ever wanted for Christie was for her not to have to deal with the blindness. If it was up to him, she'd never see any of it.

"Jim?" Her voice was quiet.

Jim froze in the doorway. He'd debated not coming home at all, but the way they'd left things, he'd been half sure Christie wouldn't be there when he got home. He didn't think she'd leave, just thought she'd be back at work, burying herself. First her birthday, now this. She'd already been spending more time at work than home, and now, with him adding up all the fights… Jim recognized the symptoms—he'd worked longer and harder on cases before, when he'd wanted to avoid Christie for any reason. Yet, there she was, as soon as the door opened, still speaking to him.

"It's okay. I didn't booby trap the apartment," she said when he didn't move.

Jim stayed where he was. Christie didn't have a very good sense of humor. It didn't help.

"Are you coming in?" she asked, starting to sound worried.

He finally stepped in and shut the door, pressing himself against it.

"I'm sorry I yelled earlier," she said. "You couldn't help—"

He was suddenly disgusted with himself, making her worry, having her apologize first. She shouldn't—not when it was his fault. "I knew I knocked something over," he spat out. "I should have checked."

"How come I'm the one who never gets to apologize?" she asked.

Women—Christie especially—had ways to make themselves blameless. If you asked Christie about anything, she could always explain it away, turn it around on him. She could even make it sound plausible that guys weren't flirting with her. But this time, when it wasn't her fault, what was she doing?

Jim wasn't much for laying blame. He didn't like being dragged into arguments only to find at the end that of course it was his fault. Jim was good at apologizing. He was good at sitting there and taking it. Now she _wanted_ to apologize?

"I can see you have an answer," Christie said lightly. "Would you care to share?"

Jim moved forward, dropped off his keys and sunglasses, turned to hang his coat on the coat rack. "I don't have an answer," he said. He didn't have an answer that would withstand any sort of scrutiny. Women just always had an explanation for anything. Jim thought the next time he got into deep thinking mode, he should come up with a rebuttal, save the whole male species. It wouldn't last long—a woman would take one look and find a loophole, making everything once again the fault of man. So why was she apologizing?

"Jim, come sit." She patted the couch.

"I don't want to talk."

"We can't just keep not talking," she said.

"Sure we can. We've been doing it for five years." Why'd she have to apologize first? And for him being blind, no less. He headed for the bedroom. He needed aspirin.

"About this afternoon—"

"Christie!" Jim spun around. "If it pertains to this—" he gestured at his eyes— "I don't want to talk about it. You want to yell at me for forgetting your birthday, go ahead, I deserve it. But this, why can't you just forget it for five minutes? Why does it always come back to me being blind? I don't want any help. I wish you could look at me and see the man I was when we first met. I know I screwed that up—" He cut himself off with a shake of the head. "It's always my fault. I made a mess, I cleaned it up, I wish you'd forgive me."

"If I do, then what?"

Galloway'd been right. No matter what started it, it would have to come down to Anne. Anne, his blindness, every mistake he'd ever made. They couldn't avoid them forever.

"If I forgive you—"

"Why is it so hard to do that?"

"Because I don't know who you are right now!"

Jim stalked across the bedroom. He'd been wanting to tell Christie for so long who he was—but at that moment, he wasn't sure either. The apartment still reeked of nail polish. He could feel the blindness tightening around him to the point he had to grope for the bed and sit down. Anne kept floating through his head, images, words, her smell, the feeling of comfort he'd had around her that he'd never had with Christie. If he'd still been with Anne, or, heaven forbid, actually left Christie for her, how would she have dealt with all this? "Has it ever occurred to you that I don't know either? That I'm trying to figure it out myself? All I know for sure—" He paused. "I never loved Anne."

"Great," Christie said sarcastically.

"You're so damn unapproachable!" he said and stood up. He crossed to the doorway, felt her move back, but he stood his ground. "I'm finally telling you how I feel, Christie. I didn't love her. She may have had a lot of things you don't, but she wasn't you." He paused, wondering if he'd said too much. But if he didn't, they'd never get it out in the open, never close that chapter on their lives. "Christie, I may never know why I did it, but I know why I stopped."

"You're going to stand there and tell me you loved me?" she asked aghast.

"What else am I supposed to say?" He waited, but she didn't say anything. "Exactly. Now you tell me—why don't you forgive me? You think I'm going to do it again?"

"I don't know."

"If you don't forgive me, we'll never find out, will we? I told you I'd never do it again, and I won't. I promised you that before I got shot. I know that screwed up a lot, we never had time to learn to trust each other again… But at least you know I was trying to change before, it didn't have anything to do with this." He gestured at his eyes again. "But how are we supposed to live together if you don't trust me?" He knew he was asking a lot of her. Christie'd never let him down. Terry had. He'd tried to forgive Terry, but it wasn't until Terry'd shot himself, amidst the pity he felt, that he'd finally understood and forgiven. "What you see is what you get, Christie, it doesn't get any better than this. I messed up, but I won't do it again.

"And today—" He knew he'd have to bring it up eventually. As much as he wanted to forget it. "I'm blind, Christie." He held his ground, waiting. As much as they'd danced around it, he'd never told her. Like he didn't have to admit it because she knew. But that was like saying he didn't have to admit he'd had an affair because she knew. "But I'm not asking you to forgive me for that." Jim walked into the bathroom and shut the door.

He stood inside, shaking. The fights he'd had with Christie recently, they'd never lasted long. And he really never had told her—the doctors had told her. She'd come to him in the hospital, and she'd already known. He didn't remember much about that time—it was all a blur, if he could even use that term. He hadn't been used to not seeing, and the doctors had kept him pretty drugged for the pain. Sometimes he couldn't remember what had actually happened, what he may have dreamed. He'd found, sitting in the hospital, a few times the drugs had made him hallucinate—he'd been sure he could see, the doctors had been wrong. Then they'd regulate his dosage, and things would get blurry again, then go away. He'd been blind a while before he was coherent enough to tell anyone, and by then, he hadn't needed to; they'd already known. By the time he'd actually used the word, he'd pretty much accepted the fact of the blindness. Except around Christie. He didn't ever want to be blind for her.

The anger was surging in him again. She'd made him admit that he couldn't see. To her. How was she ever supposed to look at him and accept that?

"Jim?" Christie knocked on the bathroom door.

Jim kept his back pressed against it to keep her from coming in. He felt like he had at the hospital, disoriented. Even his brain felt like he was back there, hadn't accepted it yet. Couldn't take it in stride that he wasn't always in control of his environment, couldn't yet accept that accidents happened.

She knocked louder. "Okay! I'll try!" she yelled. "I promise I'll try if you do."

* * *

He was awake at four. Thinking too much, as usual, he couldn't shut himself off. He got up, left her in bed, alone as usual.

Jim had always prided himself on being a man. Even before he'd reached the age where boys are normally considered men—his dad had always ordered him to "take it like a man," so he had.

And mostly he'd been a good man. He'd taken his share of lumps when his father was drinking, he'd taken care of his mother, he'd played high school football and ran with the jocks. He'd boxed. He'd joined the army, become a police officer, then a detective. He'd married a woman many men were envious of. Even having an affair had once upon a time been considered a manly pastime. He'd drink a brewski and watch the games with the guys.

Christie said he was still her man, but he found that almost condescending. She'd liked dating the ex-jock with the gun who could beat up perps on a regular basis and fight for justice for all. The man with the gun. It was all about the gun.

Which he didn't have anymore.

It was after giving up the gun that he'd decided to go back to Galloway for a while. Giving it up had brought up more issues than he'd ever imagined.

The cop without a gun. It made him feel like an invalid. Really brought home Marty's comment about being on modified assignment.

Even though Galloway said he was on his way to being the man he had been before, he couldn't quite see it. Dance lessons, a new precinct, a new partner, trying to play the sensitive husband and woo back his injured wife. She would be right to leave him, but then where would he be?

More modified assignment. Christie did more than he cared to admit. She'd always done the womanly things, like grocery shopping, but now she was in charge of paying the bills he could no longer read. He'd find ways to deal with it all if she wasn't there, but…

Once he'd stupidly charged a hotel room to his credit card. The room had been for him and Anne. It had been right after a tough case, he'd been drained and Anne helped him celebrate. They drank a little and she'd wanted to go back to his place. He'd talked her into a ritzy hotel nearby instead. He used to pay the bills, so Christie never saw the hotel on the credit card.

Even if he'd wanted to cheat on her now, it'd be more difficult—he couldn't rely on luck like that. He didn't want to cheat on her, but he felt like the blindness was holding him in check—not entirely a bad thing, but he would have liked to rely on his own morals instead.

He'd been thinking about Anne more often lately. Missing her conversations and her insights.

Christie was beautiful, but that meant nothing for him anymore. He'd loved her, but for a while he'd thought he loved Anne, too. A man with too much love and not enough commitment. Anne had always teased him about being fickle with his cases. They'd come and he'd dive in like it was the best thing ever, but once it was solved, he could move on like it had never existed.

Christie'd almost left him several times, but she'd always stayed. As much as she could hate him, there was something else. He just wished he knew how she really felt.

He wished he knew how he felt himself, too. He'd never been prone to indecision, but now he was always forced to work out his next move in his head before he made it, reason it out, weigh the consequences.

He couldn't hate Christie. He did need her. He'd lost his independence.

It struck him that maybe he was fighting against her to prove his independence, like a teenager fighting his parents. He was a grown-up, he didn't need anyone, and he was sabotaging himself.

As much as it scared him, as much as it would hurt, he needed to apologize to Christie for everything and take his lumps like a man. He would survive either way, but the manly thing to do would be to admit he was wrong.

Going to war seemed easier than the prospect of apologizing to his wife. He needed to work it out first, before he saw her again.

He headed to the precinct to make himself useful.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven—Interlude**

The Swan Lake was a dive just off Broadway. Going in, you'd think they'd forgotten to pay their electric bill. The place was usually lit by candles and a fireplace at the far end, even in the summer. It wasn't out of the ordinary to hear wailing coming from the bathrooms, and the roof was almost notorious as a fabulous spot to throw oneself off. Would-be actors were the most frequent customers, and the bartenders were known to throw in a little Shakespeare every now and then. That was the only class the Swan Lake had.

Karen was settled into a grimy chair across the room from the bar, trying to ignore her friend.

"Karen? Karen?" Anne Donnelly waved a hand in front of Karen's face.

Karen finally looked back.

"Are you ignoring me for a reason?"

"I just, you know." Karen hesitated before laying it out. "It's hard to listen to you numbering off rotten things about a guy I have to work with everyday."

"I just want to make sure you don't ever forget where he came from."

"Don't worry, I can't," Karen said, though she meant, she couldn't forget with Anne constantly reminding her.

"But you keep—"

"I respect him as a _cop_. I never said I respected him as a human being."

"Do you?" Anne asked.

Karen looked away and watched a man wearing a pink tutu downing shots at the bar. "He doesn't seem like a bad guy…"

"Yeah, that's the Dunbar charm. Trust me, there's nothing underneath, just the charm."

"Okay."

"Why are you so distracted tonight?"

"Can we change the subject?" Karen said, a little harsher than she'd planned.

"I just did," Anne said. "I asked why you're so distracted. But if you want to keep talking about Jim Dunbar—"

"I see him all day, I don't need to talk about him all night. Jim's a cop, we work together. I wish I knew how he figures some of these cases out… Anne, it's driving me crazy. Ever since he's been there, being partnered up with him, sometimes it's like I don't exist. I'm not as experienced. I don't always know what I'm looking for. They give me crap for being female."

"You knew it was a "man's job.""

"So? That doesn't mean they shouldn't accept me. Sometimes I think, even though I've worked with them longer, that Marty and Tom, they respect a blind cop more than me. And yeah, he's good at his job, but—"

Anne grinned. "Good. As long as you resent him, I don't have to worry about you falling for him."

"Anne!"

"Sorry."

"I just feel like now I'm the one with something to prove, not him."

Anne's eyes wandered and Karen quickly followed her gaze. She tried to cover her face, but she knew it was too late.

"Hey, Karen," the guy slurred. "I thought that was my favorite detective." He tried to lean over her chair while nonchalantly running a hand through his dark hair. He'd shaved right before coming out, like he'd tried to impress Karen with once before, and he reeked of after-shave cologne. He licked his lips, bringing her attention to the one tooth in front that had been discolored after years of smoking.

Karen stood up. "I'm leaving."

"Great, I'll come," he said. He stood up, shrugging his shoulders like he needed to reposition his shirt to make it more comfortable.

"Matt, get lost."

"But I thought we had something." He always had been whiny.

"One date, that's all we had." Karen grabbed her coat. He tried to help her on with it, but she wrenched it out of his grasp. She put a hand up to his chest and he grinned lasciviously, but she pushed him backwards out of her way with her best don't-mess-with-the-cop attitude. He moved where she pushed, but when she moved past, he grabbed her hand and kissed it, trying to pull her close. Karen shot him a disgusted look. "Drunken misconduct—I'll book you if you don't let go."

"Be still my heart," he said with a grin, but he let go.

Anne was laughing.

"That's what I was trying to avoid, thanks, Anne," Karen said on the way out.

"You keep up this string of bad dates, we won't be able to go anywhere anymore."

"New York is just not big enough," Karen grumbled.

* * *

Marty remembered how horrified he'd been the day the lieutenant had briefed them about the new detective being assigned. Jim Dunbar, blind as a bat. Marty'd followed the bank robbery. He was a cop; they'd all been obsessed with the bank. It had been one of those days every cop dreams he'll never see.

And Dunbar, he'd never see a day like that again. He'd been lucky to live. He'd been a poster boy for the media, but that just made him an ass to the cops he was trying to work with again, the butt of some cruel jokes passed around the squads. The blind cop.

Until he actually got reinstated, then he'd become a hero again. No cop would make fun of him while he was on the job.

And Marty'd be forced to work with him? Put his life on the line to save this guy if it came down to it? He'd have rather dragged his senile, wheelchair-bound grandmother out in the line of fire—at least she could see to duck.

Past his prime, too injured to return to work, but too stupid to know better. Get over it, that's what Marty wanted to tell the guy.

And he'd walked in with a dog. Not with a dog in tow, but with one in the lead. And a gun to boot—but that was passé now. Marty didn't have to worry about the gun anymore.

Lately, he hadn't felt the need to worry about Dunbar anymore, either. Or to worry about Karen partnered with him. Jim had proved himself and Marty had to admit, he was glad to see some of it rubbing off on Karen. She was lucky to have him as a role model.

Some things still bugged him, though. Jim was like this flawless icon they were all supposed to bow before. And Marty found himself trying to hold his own, not be overshadowed by this blind guy.

It was harder to resent Jim now. They were coming together as a squad. Experience, expertise, imagination. Marty had to smile, some of the things Dunbar came up with were at once ingenious and insane. Marty wasn't sure he'd be able to stick to his guns with some of those crack-pot theories Dunbar came up with. He respected Dunbar for sticking to them.

The thing with the coffee was still bugging him a little, though. He'd spent most of the day with the guy. As soon as he'd let the dog go, taken off his sunglasses and settled in at his desk, he was just another cop. Lunch had been a little awkward at first, sitting right across the table, holding a conversation. Marty'd always found eye contact to be important. He'd just been getting comfortable again, hadn't even offered to get coffee because Jim couldn't get it himself, had just been offering because he was going. He'd come back to find Jim in classic Dunbar-thinking mode, held up the coffee—nothing.

Not a movement, not a flicker, no acknowledgement.

It was Jim, the guy who'd saved their butts on the Tongue Collector case. And Marty felt he was right back there, hoping to God this man could hold his own like he'd promised.

* * *

Tom was an easygoing guy. He thought it was funny, that girl coming up and kissing Jim. Jim had gotten it on with this girl once, but he was playing it all saintly, like it was another life, warning Tom the bad things that could happen. Tom would just go with the flow.

Life at the squad had sure been more interesting since Dunbar had come around. Awkward, sometimes, yeah, but it wasn't as much of a pain as he'd thought it would be. When Jim relaxed, he could be a great guy. And on the job, Tom was taking the opportunity to learn from him. The brass never would have reinstated him if he wasn't good. And Tom had seen it firsthand. New blood, that's what they'd needed.

And to see Dunbar rubbing off on Karen, it made him proud. Karen was really coming into her own finally. Tom was finally getting over the woman stigma enough to joke around with her, too. Yeah, everything was coming around.

And Tom had a date with Simone. Hot, tall, long legs, he was surprised Jim had never called her, but he guessed being married, Jim was right to keep back. Shouldn't do that when you gotta go home to the same woman every night. But when you were just playing the field…

"You work with Jimmy?" Simone asked.

"Yeah."

"That's cool." She scooted her chair a little closer. "I kinda like detectives. You're always trying to save the world, one person at a time. I like that."

Tom smiled.

"I always hoped Jimmy'd call me, even though he was married. He always had the best stories, could keep us rolling for hours, even though he was usually so serious, you know."

Tom gave a half nod, watching her closely while she talked about Jim, how he had been. Before. Tom hadn't thought about it too often—just that once when that guy'd come up to thank Jim for helping his blind nephew.

Jim before, that had to be a sight.

"Was he… like he was the other night?"

"I'm surprised he pushed me away, never thought Jimmy was much of one for restraint," Simone said dryly.

"That's it?"

"It's been a year or so since I've seen him. But you cops, you always disappear for a while. Never want to stay in one place too long." She ran a hand across Tom's chest and Tom grinned down at her. "But you cops never change."

Tom snagged her hand. "Are we gonna talk about Jim all night?"

"Let's dance."

Simone took his hand and pulled him out to the dance floor, cuddling up close. Tom looked down on her, but all he could think about was Jim. Maybe he hadn't changed all that much, maybe he just wasn't comfortable around him and Marty yet—or maybe just not that comfortable being blind, always trying to compensate. Tom never really thought about Jim being blind anymore. Thinking of it now, how difficult it might be for him, thinking about whether or not Jim was the same guy he used to be—Tom shook his head to clear it, pushing the thoughts aside. Jim was Jim.

And Jim was usually right about most things. Tom felt he shouldn't be there on that dance floor with some girl wrapped around him that wasn't Nikki. Damn Jim, Tom would have to take it up with him the next day. He didn't need a conscience outside the one he already had. But the damage was done. After that dance, he'd go home. But for the moment, he held Simone close.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

"Jim? Everything okay?"

Fisk's voice sounded far away.

Jim knew he was dreaming, but to have the lieutenant make an appearance? That had never happened before. He never dreamt about the people he worked with now. He wasn't sure if that was because he hadn't spent much time with them yet, or because he'd never seen them. He liked dreaming in pictures. He didn't even mind dreaming about mundane things, like sitting on the couch and watching TV.

"Jim?"

Jim tried to roll over, then realized he was sitting up, his head back, partially slumped in a chair. His work chair, that's what it felt like. Which would explain why Fisk was there.

"Hey, Dunbar!"

Jim's eyes flew open. He was definitely in the squad. It smelled like the squad, like stale coffee, cleaning fluids, and the odd perp. He sat up quickly, almost bolting out of his chair, and sat on the very edge of the seat. He wasn't sure which direction the voice had come from, so he just faced forward. "Yeah?" he asked, like he was back in the military at attention.

"You sleep here?" Fisk asked.

Jim turned his head to the left. "Nah. No, I… got here early. Couldn't sleep."

"Looks to me like you were doing a pretty good job."

Jim tried to smile.

"Your wife didn't throw you out, did she? 'Cause if she did, you should get a hotel room. More comfortable. I want you alert, not walking in front of a cab."

"No, she didn't. It's okay." Jim turned away. "A small fight last night, but—" he frowned a second— "should blow over by tonight." He gave a dismissive wave with his hand.

Fisk was silent a second. "I'm not going to find out you murdered your wife, am I?" he asked quietly.

Jim looked over at him, bewildered, then remembered the wounds on his hands from his boxing bout. He grinned at the boss. "If I ever do, I'll let you know first so it doesn't come back to bite you in the ass."

"You've been telling me a lot of stuff lately that's liable to do that."

Jim held up his hands. "I was letting off steam at the punching bags. I let off a little too much."

"You're sure everything's okay?"

"I spent all night thinking and I was at fault. The guy's always wrong, right?" Jim smiled up at the lieutenant.

"If he wants to stay married, he is." The phone rang in Fisk's office and he hurried away to answer it.

Even though he knew deep down that it was his fault, that what he'd told Fisk was true: if he apologized, it would all blow over: even deeper down a little spark of anger was boiling, growing, surprising him by its presence. Really, why should he apologize? It had been her fault as much as his own. Jim opened the top of his laptop, the anger niggling in the pit of his stomach.

* * *

"Well?" Fisk called from his office, sounding impatient.

Jim and Hank followed Tom into the lieutenant's office. Fisk had sent them immediately down to the morgue that morning to meet a woman named Melanie Bartlett. Fisk rushed out from the early morning phone call that had interrupted his and Jim's conversation, agitated and impatient. As soon as Tom had walked in the door, Jim and Tom been deployed with instructions not to come back until they had pertinent information that would finally move the case along.

"We've all been waiting," Fisk said.

Jim could hear the other two detectives waiting as patiently as Fisk was. He nodded at the lieutenant. "She was positive," he said. "DOA's her son, Glenn Bartlett." Jim was still trying to fit the new information into his head, work it in with what little he knew about the first DOA in the 'Owls' shirt, found with a non-fatal gunshot wound and possible poison in his system. It was a relief to finally have him ID'd, to be able to get down and research a real person with a past and find friends who might have known him. Then again—

"How'd we find her?" Marty asked.

Marty was on top of things as usual. That little tidbit of information had been plaguing Jim the whole time they'd interviewed Mrs. Bartlett. "We didn't. She found us. Anonymous tip."

"So who knows more than we do?"

Jim shook his head. "I dunno. We need to find out." Someone had to have known where the kid was, that he was dead. Someone had to have known who the kid was and where to contact his family. There was a good chance the only person who would know all that information was the DOA's killer. That meaning, there was a very good chance Mrs. Bartlett had personally talked to the killer, but she hadn't been able to tell them anything useful.

"She thought it was just a prank—didn't even know her son was missing, so she called up his work," Tom said, explaining the story they'd gotten from Mrs. Bartlett only minutes before. "Found out he hadn't worked there in a year, just stopped showing up one day." Tom paused dramatically, stretching the time before he would get to the real kicker.

"Tom, there's a reason you're my partner," Marty said plaintively.

"Oh?"

"'Cause you enjoy the suspense too much. If I'd gone with you, I'd already know everything and you wouldn't be standing there, dragging it out."

Tom laughed gleefully. "So she ID'd the body. Definitely her son, who she hadn't known was missing—"

"Tom," Marty growled.

Jim smiled and picked up the story. "They're not from New York. Story is he came up here for work a few years ago and was staying with his cousin—Samantha Whittleton."

* * *

"You okay, Jim?"

Jim's head snapped up. He hadn't even heard Marty walk up. "Yeah, no problem."

"It was just a different look on your face."

Jim frowned, thinking. "Nope."

"Not related to the case?"

"Nah. I do have a life outside the squad, you know."

"Ah, problems at home. She still pissed about her birthday?"

"I dunno." Jim bit his lip. He had to look away to the other side of the squad, remembering the night before. It wasn't like things like that had never happened before, it's just that he never was able to handle them very well. It made him feel clumsy and awkward, less in control of himself and his environment. Most of the times Christie didn't even know about things he spilled or ran into; he'd get them cleaned up before she came home.

It was the worst when she was in the room watching. He could just feel the horror in her gaze sometimes, thinking things would never get back to normal. And they wouldn't. Jim liked to think he'd accepted that, but obviously he hadn't, or he'd have just gone with the flow last night, explained to Christie that these things happened—

When she'd yelled at him, asked him if he'd noticed—

Then she'd probably looked over at him and seen that difference in him that only she would know about. Looked into his eyes, not looking at whatever they were supposed to be looking at.

It probably killed her to see that.

She wasn't married to the same man by a long shot. So why'd she stay?

Pity, that was the only thing Jim could think of. Because she'd look over at him and see that little difference and she'd think, no matter what had happened between them, if she ever left, he'd be all alone in the dark. He shook his head a little, it was such a shallow statement to encompass everything that had happened between them.

But still, as much as he told himself he didn't care if she left, told himself he didn't love her anymore, might be easier on them both to be alone, easier on him to not worry constantly about what she thought, he wasn't going to ask her to leave. He was comfortable with her. He really didn't relish the idea of suddenly being a bachelor, having people thinking he needed a woman to take care of him and complete him. Again, shallow.

"That bad, huh?" Marty asked.

"Marty, some things aren't any of your business," Jim said.

"I know. I just thought, since I'm married…"

"Yeah, but you're not married to _my_ wife."

"Well, if you ever want to run something by us, I'm married and Tom's an idiot—roll us together and we're probably pretty qualified to comment on your life."

"Excuse me?" Tom asked, walking up from the men's room.

"And Karen's a girl—you got an inside track on the enemy right there."

"Hey," Tom said, "women aren't enemies. They're beautiful, fragile, interesting creatures that make the world a better place. The more of them on the planet, the better."

"Like I said, an idiot."

* * *

Jim had spent most of his lunch hour thinking about Marty's comment. He had been an idiot, Marty'd sure nailed that one. Christie and he just had so little time to spend together; out of sight, out of mind, so to speak. They just spent so much time living their own lives, they'd never even tried to connect; they'd never had to.

He spent the rest of lunch, tired and having barely eaten, just wiped from the mostly sleepless night, wondering if he and Christie could learn to connect, and if they would have married now, had they just met each other. He and Christie had a difficult relationship. Why was it up to him to always be wrong? Why did Christie always get her questions answered? Wasn't he allowed to have questions of his own?

Yeah, so he was a jerk. He'd screwed around, lied a lot. He'd been wrong.

But there were reasons he'd strayed. Christie wasn't the blameless saint. She couldn't just expect him to always answer for his actions and never answer for her own.

It was small things with Christie that used to drive him crazy. She could think she wasn't enough for him, but it hadn't been that. More like she'd been too much for him to handle. Like a sports car and he was the inexperienced driver. But that made her sound too exquisite—she had her foibles. Those little quirks that drive people crazy and make them trade up for a different model.

They hadn't been ready to marry, had known each other less than a year. She didn't like the dangerous parts of his job, the anger that often simmered just beneath his surface. He didn't like how she was pretentious, everything always so organized and pristine—he wondered briefly if the nail polish had actually come off of the floor. She'd always been a spoiled brat, had to have things her way. Made him talk when he didn't want to. How was he supposed to protect her emotionally from things he knew she couldn't handle if she kept asking him to tell her about them? He didn't tell her about certain cases because if she knew everything that went on crime-wise in this city, she'd never leave the apartment. He hated the people she wanted to be friends with. He hated the way she dressed him up and took him out on parade, her arm tightly wrapped through his, dragging him around.

He stewed.

There were more things that bothered him now, relative to his blindness. Her gasping horror at little things, always trying to compromise his independence by helping. The way she'd put away most of her breakables and tried to help him around the apartment when he got back from rehab, just to make sure he didn't break anything. The way she questioned his ability to go back to work. How she questioned others when he told her they treated him normally. The way, at dance class, when he'd tripped and fallen, how she'd cried out and rushed to his side like he was a child.

And always those interminable parties. Before and since.

"Jim, are you ready?" Christie'd asked impatiently.

He'd only walked in the door minutes before, wiped from a long day and a tough case. He wanted a beer, wanted to relax. But Christie was always on 24 hours a day, ready to go, ready to make contacts and charm everyone.

"Almost."

"Jim, come on!" She tossed his coat at him and he snatched it out of the air.

He looked her up and down as she stood in the doorway of the bedroom, all made up, tight skirt, low-cut red blouse, high heels, lipstick, perfect hair falling over her shoulders, hands on her hips, lips set in a line, eyes narrowed, chin tilted up.

"I just got home. Give me a second." He crossed over to her with a smile, his jacket over one arm. He reached out, ran a finger down her cheek, and leaned in for a kiss, but she pushed him back, averting her lips.

"We have to go." She took his jacket, spun him, helped him into it, straightened his collar.

Jim sighed. "Can we come home early? I had a long day today and it's going to be long tomorrow, too."

"I don't know how long we'll be. This dinner is important for my career."

They always were. Every dinner that popped up was of the utmost importance and it was always impossible for her to miss a second of it. They were always early and stayed pretty late. Jim followed her dutifully, drove to the hotel the dinner was at, escorted her to the banquet room. He helped her out of her coat and checked their jackets, returning to her side to find her no longer scowling. She smiled brightly and waved at someone, slid her arm through his and led him across the room.

"Lila! How good to see you!" she said.

"Ah, Christine, darling." Lila, perfectly coiffed, a woman of sixty with hair colored and treated to show no gray, turned to Jim, spangles on her dress glittering in the overhead lights. "And your handsome husband." She held out her hand, palm down. Jim grasped it awkwardly, never sure how to take that kind of handshake. He was probably supposed to kiss it, but he'd reserve that for the Pope or the Queen of England. Normal people didn't need that sort of old-fashioned chivalry. His lips were for his wife. "What was your name again?" She glanced at her hand and laughed at his hold.

"Jim," Christie supplied.

Jim smiled dumbly, wishing he were anywhere else.

"Yes," Lila said. "The detective." She batted her eyelashes.

Jim kept his expression placid, let his gaze wander up as if someone had just caught his eye. "Darling, isn't that…?" he asked, pointing, releasing Lila's hand. "We should go say hello." He smiled at Lila, declined his head in a polite nod, took Christie's arm and propelled her into the crowd.

"Jim." Christie wriggled in his grasp. "I wish you wouldn't do that. Lila's an important client and—"

"And I always get an earful on the way home about what a bitch she is," Jim said quietly, leaning down to her ear so no one else could overhear or even see his lips.

She sighed. "She'll just find us later." She patted his arm and changed direction. "Come on."

She introduced him around all night, making sure everyone knew what a perfect man she'd married, quiet, respectable, handsome, like a show pony.

Occasionally she would leave him in the capable hands of one social psychopath or other, leave him to suck up for her, to mingle on his own. He would excuse himself and eventually find himself joking with a few other husbands in a corner about what a shtty party it was, making fun of everyone there.

Sometimes he would turn to find Christie, scan the crowd until he found her hair falling over her shoulders, her most prominent feature, the best way to find her, and she'd be laughing, rubbing her hand down the arm of some handsome guy, looking up at him from under her eyelashes. His stomach would turn, but he'd let her be. It was just business, she'd told him the first time he'd made a fuss.

But if he'd ever found himself laughing with a woman alone, a second later her hand would be on his arm, around his waist, giving a squeeze, laying her head on his shoulder, sizing up the woman to make sure there was no threat.

Inevitably, she would always complain the whole way home about the people she was forced to work with. Jim always asked why she didn't drop the act and just tell them what she really felt.

"I'm too refined for that. This is part of my job."

He always dropped it, never consciously connecting it to how pretentious she was, just like all these people he was paraded around party after party. He was sure they all went back home and complained about Christie and him, but he never brought it up. She seemed so sure her façade couldn't be seen through.

And really, she was good at what she did, networking, sucking up. So sweet. Beautiful didn't hurt. She played a lot off that feature.

Then there was Clay's party. She'd left him by that wall with a beer and excused herself. Teased him for checking his watch. Yeah, that was the Christie he knew. Instead of leading him around …

He wondered what would have happened later if he'd reigned his impulses, bucked up his patience, hadn't spilled his beer: dinner, dessert, smiling pleasantly at anyone who felt sorry enough for him to come up and ask how he was doing. Christie didn't want to explain that he was blind, or that he'd gone back to work as a detective. Neither were things she could be really proud of. It wouldn't go so well with her image.

He'd gotten sick and tired of it all before the shooting. That's why he'd started looking. Inexcusable, stupid reasons, but he'd felt better flirting with other women than asking Christie to change.

But now? Now he wanted answers from her. Why should she be the only one allowed to question him? If Christie thought she was the same woman from before, he wanted her to finally answer a few questions, see if he was also the same man from before when it came to her. He needed to make sure he was never going to feel the need to seek solace in the arms of someone like Simone again.

Jim fought a yawn as Hank led him back into the squad. He'd pretty much decided he and Christie never would have married now—he couldn't see her and she'd mostly been attracted to the tough cop side of him.

"Hey, Dunbar," Sonny greeted him.

Jim frowned. "Get out of my chair, Sonny."

Sonny stood up. "I don't know how you do it—"

"Don't finish that thought."

"You're sure bossy today."

"Did you bring me good news?" Jim asked. He let Hank go.

He took a deep breath and cleared his thoughts of Christie. He wouldn't think about her again until he got home, when he could do something besides brood. Jim was back in cop mode. He'd always prided himself on his ability to keep different aspects of his life separate.

"I can't talk at your desk," Sonny said, suddenly sounding nervous, like he was looking around.

"But you can sit at it?"

"I was looking for the Dunbar family photograph."

"Come on." Jim crooked his finger and led the way to an interview room. "You can talk in here, right?" Sonny was always careful not to be seen giving away criminal secrets to cops; he would have ruined his career as a professional snitch.

"I don't know… Last time I was in here, you tried to strangle me."

"Start talking, or I'll do it again. What have you got on Pipsqueak?"

"You're not going to like it."

"Spill." Jim pulled out a chair and sat, waiting, but prepared for the worst. The way this case was going, he wasn't overly hopeful that Sonny'd be able to find anything useful.

"I started asking around at all my usual places, my usual sources, I got nothing. So, playing a hunch maybe he dealt in weapons, I asked about that. 'I'm looking to buy an AK-47, I heard I need to talk to Pipsqueak,' you know. Nothing. So I switched up, started asking about buying drugs. Finally found this old guy in a dive, took me aside, told me he didn't know where I got my information, but I got it mixed up. Pipsqueak don't sell drugs to you unless you're suicidal and he warned me to stop asking questions. So I stopped."

Jim bit his lip, mulling that over in his mind. _"…unless you're suicidal."_ "What if you are suicidal?"

"I'm not, so don't ask me. I'm not going back. I value my life—don't laugh."

Jim wiped the smile off his face to humor Sonny, then headed back to his desk with the information on the only guy Sonny'd found who'd even heard of Pipsqueak—not even a name, just a location and a description. He'd roll it over with the other detectives, see what they thought about casing the joint and trying to find the guy.

* * *

"Let's run it by Jim," Tom was saying as Jim walked back to his desk late that afternoon.

"No," Marty said emphatically. "I'm sick of "running things by Jim" first. We don't need his help." Marty sounded angry, bitter.

"Run what by me?" Jim couldn't help asking. According to his and Marty's agreement, he should have just let it go and backed off, but if he could help…

"No," Marty snapped.

"Why not?" Jim sat carefully, confused. He and Marty'd actually been getting along, he thought. He'd been wrong about people before, but… this was different. He'd just talked to Marty and there'd been nothing wrong then.

"Because I'm sick of watching you take things we've been working on for hours and you work it in that steel trap of a head for five minutes and you got it."

"Marty—"

"Marty, I'm gonna run it anyway," Tom interrupted.

Marty grunted.

Tom came over and sat on the corner of Karen's desk. Jim sat back to listen.

"So these two suspects walk into a bar. They're sitting at the counter, drinking some cheap beer, ragging on each other. One of 'em says, "If I got in my car in Des Moines and drove at 93 mph, and you got in your car in Florida and drove at 50 mph, which one of us is the old granny?""

Jim stared at Tom blankly. "Have you been drinking?" he asked.

Marty just sat back and laughed.

"You're no fun, Jim," Tom said.

"I told you it wouldn't work," Marty said.

"You had me going there for a second. I thought it was actually about the case."

"Yeah, right. You don't need to make me feel better."

Fisk walked up, followed by Karen. "Give me a rundown. What's going on?"

"One DOA down, one to go," Tom said. "Samantha Whittleton, DOA like her cousin. No criminal record. I notified her family to contact us, but haven't heard back yet. Mrs. Bartlett said she'd try to get a hold of her sister, but they had a falling out a couple years ago and don't really talk. All she knew for sure was Samantha had left home when she turned 18."

"I got her high school transcripts," Karen said. "I've been looking into who her friends were when she left home 'cause I can't find she had any friends in New York."

"I've been looking into Glenn Bartlett," Marty said. "Also no criminal record. Medical records have him with a history of depression, which his mom confirmed. She said Samantha had always been the wild child of the family, but didn't think she had a history of drug use. She's getting us all the information she can think of, addresses, friends, family. I faxed Samantha's regular doctor for her records, but I haven't got them yet."

There was a pause.

"Jim?" Fisk prompted.

"Pipsqueak. Seems like he deals in homemade poisons. I've been calling all the local chemists and drug suppliers, looking into private purchases, but unless ME can isolate any of the chemicals, it's going to be hard to narrow it down. The other scenarios are he's buying black market, or just stealing the chemicals, which would make it untraceable."

"Jim and I are trying to work up a way to contact the guy Sonny talked to. If we can get him in here on charges, he'll be more likely to talk," Marty said.

"We're gonna set Sonny up as a stakeout tonight. He'll call me if he sees the guy, but he's going to keep his distance," Jim added.

"I'm gonna stay a little late here. Just in case."

"If he calls, Marty will go down, they'll take a picture of the guy with the telephoto lens, run his photo, see who comes up, try to come up with a name, ask around a little—"

"And I'm sure we'll find something on him. Get him in custody within a couple days. Question him, see what he knows. I'll let Jim do that part, since I get to do the fun stuff."

"And if the guy doesn't show tonight, Sonny's gonna keep an eye out. And he's asking around about anyone who does a business in poison, going at Pipsqueak from the opposite end."

"Do we know," Fisk asked, "who notified Mrs. Bartlett yet?"

"Payphone," Tom said. "Whoever it was used a payphone."

"Did the Whittleton girl have a job?"

"She worked at Bloomingdale's for a grand total of two weeks," Tom said. "Cosmetics section."

"I talked to her boss and a couple old co-workers who were still around," Karen said. "They thought she was pleasant enough, but she never got personal with them. When she found out she was pregnant, she quit. They didn't know who the father was. They'd never even heard of Rico Artez."

"Samantha and Artez knew each other at least a few years, right?" Jim asked.

"Seems like it."

"So when did she get this Bloomingdale's job?"

"About three years ago."

"Clem's only, what six months? Maybe a year?"

Karen made an uncertain noise. "So she had another kid before?"

"You wanna go talk to DeLana?" Jim asked.

Karen groaned. "That girl's the Fort Knox of secrets. But I'll keep her busy while you wheedle the information out of her kids."

The phone in Fisk's office rang and he grabbed the extension on Tom's desk. "Hold off on that," he said when he hung up. "The brother's down in the Tombs freaking out. He had another seizure and when he woke up…"

"Karen?" Jim asked and stood.

"I don't know how comforting we'll be to him, but okay."

Jim headed for the elevator. "We'll be gentle."

He took Karen's arm and followed her down to the cell Artez was being kept in. He was in such a state they didn't want to bring him out to an interview room. Jim heard sobbing and yelling, several officers yelling back.

"Hey!" Karen said. "We'll take care of this."

"We brought the doctor down, but I ain't opening that cell 'til he calms down," an officer said.

Jim let go of Karen's arm and touched the bars to his right. "Artez!" He thought of yelling at him to pull himself together, but figured that wouldn't go over so well. "Your sister's still safe. We talked to her this morning on the phone."

"Don't go down there!" Artez sobbed. "They'll follow you."

"It was a phone call," Karen said.

"She was fine, so are the kids. And here you are. Can you calm down and talk to us or are you going to make us restrain you?"

"Don't go down there! Promise," Artez whispered.

"I promise," Jim said calmly.

"Never trust a cop."

Jim leaned forward. "You gotta talk to us. We won't go down to talk to her, we'll just keep it to the phone."

Artez was on the floor. Still crying, but calming down.

"We know a lot more about Samantha now, but you gotta come clean with us. Help us out."

"No!"

"Hey! Artez! Don't you want us to help?"

"There's nothing you can do."

"We have a tranquilizer ready," the doctor whispered.

"No!" Artez yelled, rearing back, pushing himself across the cell on the floor.

Jim held out a hand behind him to stop the doctor. "He'll be fine. Right? You'll calm down? So they don't have to give you a tranquilizer? You'll let them examine you, make sure you're okay?"

"I'm never going to see my sister again, so what do I gotta live for? They don't need to make sure I'm okay. It's all my fault in the first place."

"Why?" Karen asked.

Artez was crying quietly. "Samantha," he groaned.

"You wanna tell us how you met Samantha?" Jim asked.

"Is Clem okay?"

"Doing fine."

"Does he miss his daddy?" He made a strangled noise and cut off.

Karen gasped and snatched Jim's arm, pulling him out of the way as the doctor rushed forward. The cell was opened and the body held down as it shook.

"I'm going to sedate him so I can examine him more thoroughly," the doctor said. "You'll have to wait until tomorrow."

Jim hooked his hand around Karen's arm and sighed.

* * *

"Karen, what are you doing?" Marty asked.

Jim looked over. He didn't often hear Marty sound surprised.

"I have a date," Karen mumbled.

"So you're running him for priors?"

Jim laughed loudly, surprising even himself.

"Jim, shut up."

Jim grinned. "You want me to call the FBI?"

"I already did." She sounded a little embarrassed.

"That's illegal, right?" Marty said.

"I made up a very plausible story," Karen said.

"Let's run Tom's girlfriend next," Jim suggested.

"How about that floozy from the other night, too?" Marty asked.

"Are you—" Karen sputtered. "Are you guys picking up girls at the bar?"

"Chicks, Karen," Tom said, coming up. "At a bar, they're chicks."

"But these guys are married!" She made a gesture, probably encompassing him and Marty, Jim thought.

"Don't worry, they're just picking up chicks for me." Tom leaned over Karen's desk.

"Nice," Karen said.

"Who are we running?" Tom asked. "Ow! What was that for?"

"Keep your eyes on your own computer. The whole world doesn't need to know."

"Karen has a date," Jim said proudly. He felt both good for her, and good to be in on the joke. He hoped it worked out for her, but in the meantime, it wouldn't hurt to rib her a little about it.

"Jim!"

"She's running him for priors?" Tom asked.

"Karen, that look of spite—you got a thing for Dunbar?" Marty asked.

"Not particularly," she spat.

"Ouch, sorry, Jim," Marty said.

"Most women don't like me much, Marty. I'm used to it."

Fisk walked out of his office and headed their way. "Who are we running?"

* * *

Jim followed Karen to the locker room. She'd been snippy when she told him goodnight. "Karen?" Jim asked.

"What?"

"I'm sorry about telling Tom about your date."

"I can take a little teasing, Jim. I'm not gonna break."

Jim stayed by the door. Karen hadn't moved from her locker.

"Marty told me about the girl you guys picked up the other night," she said disapprovingly.

"Marty gossips a lot, doesn't he?"

"I thought you'd know better, Jim. By now, wouldn't you?" She slammed her locker.

"Karen." Jim moved into the room, headed for her locker, but she intercepted him. "I didn't—"

"You kissed her."

"She kissed me. There's a difference."

"Big difference."

"Intent is a big difference. I made her stop!"

"You expect me to believe you? I could ask Anne. We'll find out what she thinks."

"Karen, honest."

"Was Anne really the only one?"

"Yes!" Jim turned away. "Just what did Russo tell you? 'Cause I made her stop. She went off with Tom."

"Really?"

"Yes! Ask them. I'm not gonna lie to you."

"Jim…" Karen said more calmly. "I'm your partner now and I'd hope you wouldn't lie to me. I just want to make sure you don't screw up. 'Cause you know, cops can really mess up their lives doing that."

Jim nodded. Carl Desmond's death was still fresh in their minds. "I know. I almost did once. I swear I won't do it again."

Karen smiled. "I'm keeping an eye on you anyway. I have to report back to Anne, you know."

Jim groaned. "Can we set her up with that Nick guy you were seeing? She'd have a field day with him; make me look like a saint."

"He's in jail."

Jim grimaced. "Sorry."

"But the guy I'm going out with this weekend looked clean. Here's hoping."

"We good?"

"Yeah."

* * *

He'd thought Tom and Karen had already left. Marty was still in the squad room. Someone else was in the locker room and, though Jim couldn't pin down why exactly, it just didn't sound like that person belonged. He could ask 'hello' like a blind man, but that would be like showing his cards, and he wanted to have the upper hand. A control freak, like he'd told Marty and Tom in the bar. He stood listening a second to footsteps moving slowly. He moved himself to the far side of the lockers, then waited for the steps to turn the corner. "Can I help you?" he asked, looking as closely at the other person as possible. He'd whipped off his sunglasses as soon as he heard the footsteps, so he kept his gaze as piercing as possible.

"I was just looking for your boss. Brian Mulhaney."

Jim turned quickly before the guy could offer his hand. "Come with me."

"I was sent over from my squad for some information on a witness in one of our cases."

Jim stopped in the hallway and they faced each other. "The boss is gone for the day," Jim said. His internal lie detector was going off, telling him not to trust this guy. "What's your name again?"

"Mulhaney. You wanna see my badge?" There was a snarky, superior tone in his voice, a hint of sarcasm, almost like he was toying with Jim, thought it would be fun to torment him, like pulling the wings off a butterfly. Malice.

Jim shook his head. The guy obviously had noticed he was blind, so Jim dropped the charade.

"And you're…?"

"Jim Dunbar. You wanna see my badge?"

"Oh, you're Dunbar? I heard you interviewed this girl I'm looking for. Maybe you can help me out?"

"What girl are you looking for? I interview a lot of people everyday."

"You want me to describe her?" Mulhaney asked with a tone bridging on the absurd.

"How else am I gonna know who you mean? You just wanna look at my files on everyone I've interviewed this week?"

"If it'll be easier." His voice had a hopeful, almost excited tinge.

"What's her name, this girl, and why are you looking for her?"

"We have reason to believe she witnessed a murder in our precinct. Name she goes by's DeLana Artez."

Jim waited.

"Real name's Laine Campbell. You remember her?"

Jim frowned, pretending to think. "Can't say I do."

"You mind if I go through those files you were talking about?"

"Why don't you come back tomorrow—they're all in Braille, I'd have to read them to you."

"Oh. Ah, yeah, tomorrow. Sure."

"Is that a problem?"

"No, of course not. I'd just hoped the files would be more readily available. Hoped to get a jump on things."

Jim shrugged widely. "Sorry, what you see is what you get. Come back tomorrow, I'll hook you up." Jim held his hand out. "Nice meeting you."

Mulhaney shook, then headed for the elevator.

Jim hurried to his desk.

"Who was that?" Marty asked.

"Take a good look," Jim said quietly.

"I don't recognize him. Should I?"

Jim slid into his chair, trying to look like he wasn't talking to Marty, in case Mulhaney turned around. "Remember that face, okay?"

Marty kept quiet. The elevator doors dinged.

Jim sighed. He cracked his neck and tried to unbunch his muscles.

"You mind explaining?"

Jim put in his earpiece and started loading a file. "I can't explain it. This guy's snooping around, obviously he got lost. I'm pretty sure he's not who he says he is. And he's looking for our witness."

"Who's he say he is?"

Jim was already typing the name into his computer. "Brian Mulhaney," he said slowly as he typed it out. He hit enter and waited for the computer to tell him what he already suspected. It was loading slowly, so he turned back to Marty. "I met this kid once, back when he was in training, so I think I'd even recognize his voice. If I remember right, he was on the job about two days, but he couldn't cut it. Rob Mulhaney's only son. You know Rob?"

"Vaguely."

"Brian was assigned to my old precinct."

"But he only lasted two days?"

The computer started spitting out information and Jim held up a finger for Marty to wait. When the file was done he nodded to himself and threw the earpiece on the desk.

"Bad news?" Marty asked.

"After he left the squad, he disappeared. I don't think he was officially on a case when he disappeared, maybe unofficially… Rob kept it real quiet. If I remember right, they found his body a year ago in a creek upstate. Kid died, but they kept it real hush-hush, no obituary, no funeral. Cremated. All the file could tell me was he was a cop for two days and he disappeared, whereabouts unknown. What do you bet they never recovered his badge?"

"Are you sure it was the kid they found, and this wasn't Mulhaney?"

"I don't even think this guy was a cop."

"You mind explaining that one?"

"Marty, the only cop I know who makes fun of me for being blind is you. True?"

"True. Everyone else can't get past the whole bank thing and stop calling you hero long enough to see you as you really are."

Jim leaned forward on his desk, resting his chin on his hands. "Rob told me about his kid himself. I was still in the hospital, all these well-wishers coming by, driving me crazy: good job, you'll be fine. Rob came in. He sat down, didn't say anything. Just sat there.

"Finally he said, "Jimmy, you were a good detective, sorry 'bout what happened, we'll miss you, but at least we didn't have to pull your body out of a stream.""

That had been when Jim had decided to try to come back on the job. He still hadn't been able to walk down the hall on his own, wasn't sure he'd ever be able to, but he wasn't dead, that much he knew. As long as he was still alive, he'd be a detective. He had been a good detective, and he would be as long as possible.

"He started talking to me, since I couldn't interfere—they were keeping it all under wraps. And to see what I thought. They'd run DNA and everything, 'cause the body'd been decomposing in a creek for a month. Not a pretty sight.

"Rob said Brian had met this group of people the summer before, disappeared for a while. Rob just thought they were all out partying. Then Brian showed up one day, suddenly wanting to follow in the old man's footsteps. Rob was kinda proud, thought Brian was ready to turn his life around.

"The case is still open on his disappearance, and I'd guess they're still investigating—pretty sure it's a murder. Rob thought it had something to do with those new friends."

Jim sighed and leaned back, spinning his chair a little and staring at the ceiling.

"Go home. You look like you need some sleep."

"What I need is to figure out who this guy—"

"I'll look through a few mug books for you."

Jim clenched his jaw.

"Don't tell me you want to do that, too. Jim, you can't—"

"I know." He gripped the armrests of his chair. It was killing him that he'd had a conversation with this guy but had to rely on Marty's eyes.

"I was going to say you can't save the world. One cop doesn't interview everyone, do all the footwork, research, and make the arrests, right?"

Jim smiled. "Right."

"Get some sleep. And apologize to your wife while you're at it."

Jim grimaced. That's not what he'd spent the whole day thinking about, apologizing. Apologizing wasn't even on his list at the moment. "Marty—"

"None of my business."

Jim shut his laptop and stood up. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

* * *

"Jim?"

He turned away. He didn't want her to look him in the eye.

"What? I was just going to ask what you wanted for dinner."

"Are we okay?"

"I don't know."

He nodded. "We've both been pretty busy lately. Everything's been so hectic."

"Mhmm."

Jim leaned against the pillar in the living room. "About last night…" The whole way home, he'd been thinking, stewing, needed her to understand where he was coming from. Almost like when Marty had confronted him about always trying to be the best, he felt like that around Christie. He'd been wrong when he told Fisk it would all blow over. If he bowed out, yeah, it would blow over for a while, but there was no way he could keep his feelings at bay. Maybe she'd had her answers last night, but he hadn't.

"It's not always about you being blind, Jim." She took a deep breath. "I don't care how many messes you make. You could have let me help, but I understand why you didn't."

Jim sighed. "When you married me, I bet you had no idea one day I was going to be blind." He was tired. Tired and he really didn't want to talk about the night before. He had things he wanted to know, like where he stood with her before apologizing. Maybe all their discretions weren't pardonable after all.

"How could I?"

"How do you deal with it?" He'd heard enough people ask her that, but she'd always shushed them, he'd never heard her answer, but now he wanted to know.

Christie was quiet. "I guess it would be easier to answer that if I knew," she said. "You don't talk to me—"

"I never have. How do you feel? How do you deal with it?"

"You don't let me help."

"I don't want help. And usually I don't need it."

"You don't make it very easy for me to understand, to know what I should do."

It was always back on him. Always his fault.

"I just want things to be the way they were before," Jim said.

"How can I argue with that?" Christie asked.

"Do you want to?"

She paused. "I don't want everything the way it was before."

"Okay, what I want is for you to treat me the same way as before. Can we forget everything and go back to the beginning? I'm still the asshole you married, right?"

"That doesn't say much for me, does it?" she asked with a grimace in her voice.

"So maybe I became one later."

"Timing is everything."

"When I fall down, why do you have to rush to my side?" That had been bugging him for so long. Why didn't Christie just stand up for him? "You can't help. Why don't you just stand there and tell people I'm okay?"

"Wouldn't that seem heartless?"

Aren't you? he wanted to ask. "I was never good enough for you, Christie. Was I? You knew that. You were always out of my league. Why did you marry me?"

"Jim…"

It was Jim, not Jimmy. His pet name was gone. He couldn't confront Christie and expect answers. He should have known that just by looking at the divorce rates in the US. He didn't stand a chance. He turned away.

"I married you because I loved you. You've been making it pretty hard to do that for a long time now. And it has nothing to do with you being blind."

"What if I wasn't?" he speculated. So many things would be different if he hadn't lost his sight, if he'd come out of the shooting with just a small scar on his temple and a few nightmares. If he'd only almost died, but hadn't had to take a year to re-evaluate his life, to struggle to do everything that had always come naturally for him.

In his mind he could see Christie standing behind him, hugging herself, alone. She looked vulnerable for a second and he had to fight the urge to go to her and comfort her. Christie was usually so strong, such an individual, but there were those moments when she softened, when she worried what people thought of her. As he stood there with his back to her he looked closer, past the tears that had gathered in her eyes. Her lips weren't pressed together, her chin wasn't trembling, her nose wasn't turning red. She wasn't scared or sad or hurt. Her blouse, light blue to match her eyes, wasn't wrinkled, and her skirt, dark wool that went just below her knees for a very professional look, it was still neatly pressed. She sat in her office all day, talking on the phone, writing at her computer, taking lunch with the rich and famous and beguiling them with her smile.

She'd almost left him so many times. She always seemed delighted to get him out into her world with her people, show how civilized he was. She took such pleasure in things like trapping him into those dance lessons.

He was tired of doing her favors. She could take one look at him at the end of the day, his suit mussed and wrinkled, his tie undone, often with splatters of blood and a five o'clock shadow, and she'd know she'd failed to curb his natural habits. That had to be killing her.

"Tell me. Why'd you marry me?"

"Do you have to ask? I fell in love with you."

"Did you fall in love with all the parts you've been trying to change for five years?"

"I wouldn't try to change—"

"You do. All the time." He ran both hands through his hair and fell onto the couch.

"You're tired."

"Yes! I'm tired. And all day, I've kept thinking, what does Christie really think?" He turned his head up toward her. "Well?"

She didn't say anything.

"You feel sorry for me? You want to help me?"

"I want to help. That doesn't have anything to do with feeling sorry for you."

"You can't help."

"You're going to do it all on your own, right? Like you've always done everything."

"Is that so bad? That's who I am, Christie."

"I think you should sleep before you say anything else, Jim."

He stood up. "I can't. Dr. Galloway rescheduled me. I have to be there in an hour."

"And what are you going to tell him? About us?"

"That my wife couldn't tell me what she thought of me, how's that?"

"I think," she said, "that you need to stop pushing me away."

Jim grabbed Hank's harness and called the dog over. "I didn't say, tell me what to do. I said, tell me what you think."

"You're not the same man." Her voice trembled.

"That's bad."

"Some of it's good." She sighed. "And sometimes I just don't know you anymore. Last night, right now."

"I'm not very good about talking about my feelings."

"Do you yell at Dr. Galloway?" she asked quietly.

Jim frowned, thinking. "Yeah."

"Tell me, right now, what you think about us."

"I think… I never knew who you were."

"Do you know now?"

"No."

"And yourself? What do you think about yourself?"

"That I'm trying my hardest. At everything."

"You want me to cut you some slack, is that it?"

"I just want everything to be—"

"Yeah, well, it can't. Get over it."

* * *

He guessed he just wasn't a sentimental guy. Thinking back to when he first met Christie, he didn't get all nostalgic and think, boy if things were still like that. Or, wasn't that a great time? Or boy, I sure liked Christie.

"Doc, is it possible to have never loved someone you thought you did?"

"How do you mean?"

"Like, when you look back at someone you've known for years, and you realize that, even though you thought you loved them, you can't find anything good to look back at?"

"Maybe you're just not looking hard enough."

"Maybe."

"There had to be something, right? Or else why would you have married her?"

Jim smiled a little. Galloway wouldn't be fooled just because he didn't mention Christie's name. He thought back over their relationship again. "There were all these parties she used to drag me to. I hated it."

"But you went for her?"

"Yeah."

"And now you resent her for that? Because you didn't want to do it and you think you wasted all that time you could have been doing something else?"

Jim grimaced.

"That's normal. But those are tainted memories. That doesn't mean you never loved her. You just need to dig a little deeper."

Jim smiled. "I thought couples' therapy wasn't your specialty, but you sound pretty knowledgeable to me."

"I've been doing a little reading. I figured you'd bring up your wife once in a while."

"Thanks."

"I still recommend you talk to someone else, though. With your wife. It might help. Jim, you're outgrowing me. You seem to be getting everything back on track at work, you're getting along with the other detectives, the biggest problem you have right now is that you won't talk to your wife. I can't force you to talk to her, but I highly suggest it."

Jim turned to stare at the wall. Galloway let him think.

* * *

Christie was in bed when Jim got home. He fell on the couch, fully clothed, his arm slung over his eyes, and slept. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Jim woke up to a kiss. His eyes fluttered open slowly, still dreaming. "I think," Christie's voice said, "you are trying. I'm sorry." Warm lips. Without a face.

He gasped, broke away, and sat up, pushing something to his right, which moved back under the pressure, grabbing a cushion to his left, the back of the couch. Disoriented, he sat there a moment, feeling the leather warming under his hand.

A hand touched his. He looked over, feeling the couch, the blanket wrapped around him, his clothes still on, his shirt half unbuttoned, shoes off, a corduroy pillow under one hand. He could hear someone else breathing.

"Your alarm went off. Time to get up." She squeezed his hand.

Jim nodded, but didn't let go of the couch.

"Did you hear me?"

"Yeah. Time to get up."

"No, about you trying."

Jim thought back. She kissed him and it brought him back to the dream, which he couldn't remember, just the kiss. "Yeah." He looked up at her, blinking. "I'm sorry, too."

"That's what you asked me last night, what I thought of you."

"I remember."

"I think you're trying. I like that. I have to leave for work, though."

She left and Jim sat there, listening to her grab her briefcase and close the door. His breathing returned to normal. Sometimes, waking up, even in bed, he'd be disoriented, dreaming, forget for a minute everything that had happened in his life, who he was, where he was, why he couldn't see. A few minutes of bliss to dream in color, then a few minutes of hell, readjusting to the loss of his sight.

But, he realized as he picked himself up off the couch, Christie hadn't asked if he was okay. That was good; he didn't want to tell her.

He headed for the shower, feeling warm, like the fight was over.

* * *

"So that guy who was in here last night," Marty said as soon as Jim came back from the locker room, "how sure are you that you knew him before? You sure you'd recognize a voice years later?"

"Yeah, Marty."

"And you're sure the name was Brian Mulhaney?"

"Yeah."

"Not something else similar?"

"What else would it have been?" Jim sat carefully in his chair, preparing himself for the end of Marty's questioning.

"And no one else has any idea you would have an inkling of who Brian Mulhaney was?"

"Not except his father. Where are we going with this?"

"Brian Mulhaney came back last night. Late, about ten."

"Sonny never called. You didn't have to stay so late." Jim tried to ignore the niggling feeling in his gut that only wanted to know what Mulhaney had been doing there. Patience, get the story from the beginning, make sure he didn't miss anything and didn't have to go over it again.

"I needed a little more overtime. And when you left, I just had this uneasy feeling. So I kicked back with a cup of coffee in one of the interview rooms, looked through some mug books. Janitor came by about nine thirty and turned off all the lights. I spaced, staring out the window, maybe dozed a little, then I heard this noise. He was going through your desk, Jim."

"_My_ desk?"

"So I came out, asked what I could do for him, said I was working nightshift. He says he's from Internal Affairs, heard there was a detective here keeping secret files in a language no one else could read, and he had to look into it."

"Internal Affairs?"

"You still sure you got the right guy?"

"If he was from IA, why wouldn't he have said so in the first place? He told me he was looking into a homicide at his precinct and we shared a witness."

"I told him I didn't have access to those files. He said he had a warrant. I told him to show it to the lieutenant in the morning."

"You know I was lying bout those files, right? I still suck at Braille."

"And I said, why would IA need a warrant anyway? He said he'd be in touch."

"How'd he get up here?"

"He had a badge. Showed it downstairs. I went down and asked, told them not to let him back up again. They'll call if he comes back."

Jim leaned back in his chair, rubbing his mouth and thinking. "You were here with me last night, Marty. That file I pulled up on Brian Mulhaney, it listed him missing."

"That's why I had to ask. 'Cause when I ran it this morning, he came up, been a cop four years."

Jim stared at Marty.

"And I thought, it's bad enough they're reinstating blind cops. You gotta draw the line when they start reinstating dead ones."

"Maybe I was wrong and he wasn't dead. But that doesn't explain how the file got there saying he's been with us four years."

"So you're sure you pulled up the right name last night?"

"Absolutely."

"'Cause I didn't get a look at it."

"I know I did."

"Good. 'Cause I called the listed supervisor; never heard of his kid. I had the lieutenant call his old friend Robby Mulhaney to confirm his kid was dead. He did, but they're keeping it hush-hush 'cause they're investigating something deep. Mulhaney's coming down tomorrow to talk with Fisk about what we got, see how it's related. Lieutenant told me to get what we can today, 'cause tomorrow they might pull the case, if it's too interrelated. They don't want us screwing anything up."

"But how'd the file get there?"

"That, I can't answer."

"You didn't ring up IT? See when tech services has the last update on that file listed?"

"I didn't. Didn't think of that."

"I'll make the call."

Jim scrolled through the electronic address book on his computer and put in the call. "They'll get back to me. You think this guy's gonna come back?"

"It would take some balls. He's gotta know we're onto him by now."

Marty's phone rang and he picked it up.

Jim sat back and ran a hand through his hair. He took off his sunglasses, pinching the bridge of his nose, listening to Marty's half of the conversation. He'd barely walked through the door and already he had a headache. As much information as Marty'd thrown his way, all he could think about was Christie.

"That was Brian Mulhaney's supervisor, the guy I called earlier to see if he worked there? Called back, apologizing, said he didn't know how it happened, but Mulhaney had just walked through the door with a transfer notice and did I want to talk to him."

"What's this guy playing at?" Jim asked just as his phone rang. IT had been fast. They spouted off the information, then Jim hung up. "They're shutting down the system. A major breach about five this morning. Maybe just hackers, but that's when that file was changed. They're going to try to pull back-up files and compare changes, send out the matches to all the precincts, see if we can figure out what it means."

"I think it means we're all screwed, how 'bout you?" Marty asked.

"I think we should move De—"

"I did that last night before I left."

"Good. Great, thanks." Jim sighed, relieved, and rubbed his head again. "I think I'll see if Karen wants to go over when she gets here. I'd like to ask DeLana the same things we asked Artez."

"No offense, but I don't think you should go over there. They know you're in charge of this case, right? What if they're following you?"

Jim gritted his teeth.

"Tom and I can hit it later."

"Tha—"

Fisk slammed the door to his office open. "Dunbar, you know that Artez guy you booked? I just got a call from IT—he was released this morning to another precinct. You know anything about it?"

Jim closed his eyes. "Officer's name Brian Mulhaney?"

"Yeah. But if this is the same kid I called Robby Mulhaney about this morning to confirm he was dead, we have a problem."

"He's dead," Marty said. "We have a problem."

"Boss, we need to talk," Jim said gravely.

* * *

"Dunbar! Hey, Jim!" the lieutenant called out his open office door.

Jim's head snapped up. He'd been pondering the case, trying to figure out how to find out what they didn't know. He wondered how many times the boss had called him.

"Come in here a minute."

Jim wondered what was up. Lately, most of the times he'd been called into the boss's office, they'd been less than peachy visits. The thought flew through his mind that maybe Dr. Galloway had sent over an unfavorable report, something about his fight with Christie.

Jim stood up, but as he took a step away from his desk, he found someone in front of him.

"We have a Mrs. Campbell here, Jim," Lt. Fisk said quietly. Jim looked up at him. _"Real name's Laine Campbell…"_

"She was sent up here because one of those witnesses you interviewed the other day might be here daughter. A uniformed officer matched the description. We thought you might be able to confirm it, since you interviewed the girls."

Jim rubbed his forehead and resituated his sunglasses. Asking him to identify someone? Besides Christie and Hank, who could he ID? "Uh…"

"I want you to get a feel for her. It's up to you what we tell her." Fisk touched his arm. "Come on."

Jim awkwardly took Fisk's elbow, wondering why the lieutenant would be playing up the blindness. More problems with the case? That's all they needed. He followed his boss, feeling like he was getting disoriented. He wasn't used to being led around the squad, the pace different than usual, throwing him off just enough. He felt the sleeve of his jacket brush the door and stopped, letting go of Fisk's arm.

He touched the side of the door to reorient himself, then cocked his head. The first second in a new room was always awkward, before he knew where everyone was. "Mrs. Campbell?" Jim asked without stepping into the room or turning. He couldn't even hear anyone else breathing.

"Yes," she said quietly, much quieter than DeLana would have. That much they didn't have in common.

"Which one's your daughter?" Jim asked.

"Her name's Lana. Actually it's Laine. Named her after her grandfather. We just always call her Lana." Her voice quivered, like she'd been crying and wasn't done yet.

"Tell me, when's the last time you saw your daughter?" Jim faced her, his arms crossed.

"I haven't actually seen her in three years, detective, but she and I, we kept in touch. She would call me, but she couldn't give me a number to reach her back. She would write and send pictures of Tamika."

Jim nodded. "And your son?"

There was a moment of silence. "I have four daughters."

Jim pressed his lips together. "When's the last time you heard from your daughter?"

"About six months. She said she wouldn't be able to call for a while, so I wasn't too worried. Then I got this phone call saying Lana was in police custody."

"Who called?"

"I don't know."

"Male? Female?"

"Male."

"Young, old?"

"I don't know."

"And you believed them because…?"

"It's been a long time since I've heard from her! I'm worried. What if something happened? It's sounded like she's been having trouble lately, so I'm worried."

Jim didn't know what to think. "The girl in question, I'm not sure she's your daughter. And no, we don't have her in custody, she's not arrested, not in any trouble. But if you leave your number, we'll call when we talk to her again."

"Dunbar," Fisk said. "I'll take it from here." He stood as Jim nodded and turned. "Let me help you back to your desk."

Jim waited, breathing evenly to keep his hands from clenching. The lieutenant opened the office door and Jim took the big man's arm again. He let go as soon as Fisk shut the door and stopped walked.

"What's your impression?"

Jim shook his head. "Another anonymous tip-off? I don't like it."

"You don't think she's telling the truth?"

"I don't want that lady anywhere near DeLa—Laine. Whoever. I don't know if that's her mom or not. I'm actually thinking she might be, but—"

"Well?"

"Boss, the way this case has been going, even if she is family, I'm inclined not to believe she has DeLana's best interest in mind. Family can turn on each other as much as strangers can."

"I hope you know what you're doing."

"I'm trying not to compromise the life of the only witness I have left. At this point, I'm afraid any contact with DeLana—or Laine—and her mom… I don't know what would happen. A cheerful reunion? That's doubtful. They haven't seen each other in three years—why now?" Jim stood waiting, running scenarios through his mind. This woman, she'd found them through an anonymous tip, just like the Bartlett woman. If she was authentic, maybe she was being followed. If not, the way information had been skewed and files had been breached, Jim trusted only Fisk and the other three detectives. Anyone else was extraneous, liabilities. He just hoped he could trust the officers staying with DeLana to do their jobs.

"So we're not going to tell her anything?"

"Let's get some contact info and a photo. We can ask DeLana about her first. Marty offered to go talk to her later." Jim shook his head. "But as far as Mrs. Campbell's concerned, we don't know where her daughter is." He turned back to his desk, but Fisk stopped him.

"IT called back—that file on Mulhaney was the only altered one. They found a deleted one."

"Artez?"

"Yeah."

Jim swore. "And you called Mulhaney's squad?"

"Hasn't shown back up since this morning."

* * *

"I'm not much of a people person, Miss Artez. You can stop smiling," Marty said, leaning back on the dilapidated old couch that had seen too many rear ends in its day. The whole house needed to be torched or torn down. Marty kept an eye out for rats while he concentrated on DeLana's expressions. Jim had asked for a more complete second opinion, so Marty was paying as close of attention to her as he figured Dunbar would have, back when he could see.

"So you're playing the bad cop, he's the good one?" DeLana asked, gesturing across the room at Tom.

"I don't play games like that, Miss Artez. I also don't go out of my way to try to make people like me."

DeLana was 26, but the look in her eyes was wary. She wasn't a trusting kid. You could tell just by looking at her clothes and her hair that she couldn't afford to fix them up. She kept herself groomed, but she wasn't coiffed and styled, couldn't afford make-up, couldn't even afford a needle and thread to patch her clothes.

"Well?" DeLana prompted. "Why are you here?" She waited and Marty just stared at her. "I'm waiting for an answer."

"So are we."

For the next twenty minutes Russo and DeLana eyed each other suspiciously, but neither one offered any information.

Tom practically ran into the room, holding the baby in front of him like a live grenade. He held it out to DeLana, set it on her lap when she didn't immediately take it. "Here. This one stinks." He turned to Marty. "I don't know how Dunbar got out of there in one piece. You have a kid, it's your turn. I'll finish out here." He sat on the half-dead couch and motioned at DeLana to go on. "You can take care of that first." He glanced at Marty. "Where are we?"

"Nowhere," Marty said. "She hasn't told me anything. Until she does, I'm not telling her anything. This isn't a one-way street."

"Go take care of the kids."

"No," Marty said. "I'm not a baby-sitter." He stayed seated next to Tom.

"Miss Artez, what do you want to know? We'll tell you something, then you tell us something. You help and I won't get out the thumbscrews."

"I want to know why you haven't brought my brother back yet."

"We booked him as accessory to the murder of his girlfriend," Tom said.

"He didn't—"

"We know. We just thought: one, it would keep him safe; two, he was withholding information, and maybe this would soften him up a little. Seeing as he was in police custody when the murder went down, we can't hold him as more than an accessory."

"So he's in jail?" she asked with a pained expression.

Tom turned to Marty. "You really didn't tell her anything, did you?"

"Why should I? If they would have told us anything first time around, we wouldn't be in this position."

"I don't _know_ anything," DeLana persisted.

"Just tell us what you do know, from the beginning," Tom said. "Because your brother, he's gone. And if you don't talk, I have a feeling we'll never find him alive. Got that?"

"He's missing?"

"Who are these bad dudes, DeLana? Tell us so we can make sure we can keep you safe."

"I don't know!" She started crying, then ran down the hall and slammed the door to one of the rooms.

She'd left Clem on the couch.

"Sht," Tom said, looking at the kid.

"Watch your mouth," Marty said. "You want that to be his first word?"

"It's as good a first word as any." Tom went over, snatched up the kid, holding it at arm's length again. Down the hall he kicked the door to knock. "Laine Campbell, open up! You got a stinky kid to take care of and a lot of questions to answer!"

The door opened. She took Clem, then slammed the door again. "I'm not Laine Campbell anymore. Go away."

"You want me to beat the door down?" Marty asked, leaning against the wall behind Tom.

"There's no lock on the door, probably not necessary."

"Yeah, but it would make more of an impression than just walking in, don't you think?"

* * *

Karen's footsteps were coming down the hall. Jim could recognize some people by listening to the way they walked and moved, and he'd spent enough time with Karen to recognize her easily, besides being the only female detective in the squad.

"Geez, Dunbar," Karen said, plopping down in her chair, "it's like going to lunch with your fan club. All she ever does is talk about you."

Jim didn't look up from his computer. "What are you talking about?"

"Anne."

Jim's fingers slipped on his keyboard and he quickly backspaced. He looked up and lowered his voice. "Should I be flattered?" he asked, bristling. He still had trouble hearing Anne's name. "I thought she hated me."

"Oh, don't worry, she does."

Jim nodded. He looked away, then nodded again. "Good."

"Good?" Karen sounded surprised.

"I didn't do the best thing in the world to her. I don't expect to be on her good side."

"Yeah, you stay humble now, but you should be there sometimes."

Jim shifted uncomfortably. "Are you and I still okay?"

"Yeah, sure, I guess. It's hard to hear some of this stuff, but we're still partners. I respect you as a cop."

Jim nodded. It was probably best if he and Karen didn't strike up a friendship. Not only was she young, female, and attractive, she was also Anne's friend. And after his friendship with Terry went south… Yeah, it was best that they retain a working relationship. "Thanks." He went back to typing his report, but he finally looked back up. Not that he needed to excuse his actions, he just wanted to make sure Karen could trust him. "Karen, you know…"

"What?" she asked after a minute.

"Well… I know what I did was wrong… I just, I always tried to treat her well."

"Yeah, I know," Karen said and laughed at the surprised look that passed over Jim's usually unreadable face, "that's part of the reason she hates you so much."

* * *

"Hey," Marty said, sliding his chair over toward Jim.

Jim looked up and pulled out his earpiece.

"Can you… like, pretend you're not blind?"

Jim almost laughed at the absurdity and the surprise of the comment.

"What kind of a question is _that_?" Karen asked before Jim could. She sounded offended.

Jim finally laughed. "Karen, it's okay." He turned back to Marty. "It doesn't really work that way. Why do you ask?"

"I just thought, you know, everything's getting all screwed up anyway. I thought you and I could head over to that bar—Spike's or whatever—and ask around."

"And the pretending I'm not blind part?"

"People are more likely to remember you then, you know. So I thought you could just follow my footsteps, like you do around here. Sit around the bar and question people."

Jim shook his head. "Not in a bar, I couldn't. Too noisy." He smiled to himself, looking at his desk. "Thanks, though."

"Maybe Tom and I could, if I can get Tom to cancel his date for tonight."

Jim rubbed his mouth, thinking, wishing he could find a way. "What if Karen comes? I could sling my arm around her—"

"Hands to yourself, Jim," Karen muttered.

"Of course. Karen, you know me. I'd never put the moves on you."

She was silent a second. "I'm almost offended." She laughed.

He joined in. "Hands to myself, no necking, I promise."

"Smooth, Dunbar," Marty said.

* * *

"Christie." Jim stood behind her at the stove. He was close enough he could feel her turn. "I was wrong. I should have said something as soon as I remembered your birthday. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she said. It sounded like she was smiling.

"I am. I don't know how you can just forgive me."

"I've forgiven you for worse, haven't I?"

Jim grimaced and closed his eyes a second. She always brought it up, meaning she'd never actually forgiven him and probably never would. He walked away, putting the island between them, facing the wall of windows. "Can we talk?"

"Sure," she said amiably.

She was stirring something on the stove, the spoon scraping the pan. Jim felt like she was stabbing him. What was going on?

Did he really want her to be mad at him?

No, he'd said. But forgiveness had never been Christie's strong suit. If they didn't get it out in the open, he knew it would fester. It wasn't like her to ignore it, that's what had been bothering him. That's what Dr. Galloway couldn't understand. Ignoring both the fight and the birthday thing? This wasn't like Christie.

"I was wrong," he said.

"I know."

"That's it? You know?" He grabbed the back of one of the bar stools.

"Jim, maybe you need to get a better therapist if that's as well as you can communicate."

"Christie, Galloway's not a marriage counselor."

"So he didn't suggest you apologize?"

"No."

"You thought of that all on your own?"

"It's been killing me, not saying something, but I knew we were going to get into a big fight, just like we did." Jim paused. "Why aren't we still fighting?"

"I've been seeing a therapist since we talked to Galloway. A friend recommended her. She really is very good. Since we don't have time to go see that lady Dr. Galloway recommended, I thought we could both have our separate therapists."

Jim had to sit down. "Why didn't you tell me? I would have gone to see the couples' therapist with you."

"I was having trouble finding a time both of us could go."

"You didn't ask. I could have made time."

Christie set a plate on the counter in front of him. "Here. I'm not very hungry, but I thought you should eat." She started to walk away.

"Christie!" Jim jumped up. He followed her to the bedroom but stopped in the doorway. "What the hell?"

"She told me I needed to come to terms with your job and accept the fact that you're busy. We're both career people, so we're perfect for each other. We can both indulge at work, but when we get home, that's just a time to relax and enjoy each other's company. Forgive each other. Because neither of us has the energy for a deep relationship. It's either family or career."

Jim thought that sounded really shallow. "I thought we were trying to fall in love again, not make excuses for what went wrong."

"Just be here for me, Jimmy. I'll be here for you."

* * *

Jim brooded over dinner. He'd thought things were better between him and Christie—that morning, it had seemed…

He shook his head. How could she have forgiven him so easily? He'd been a fool to believe it. She was just following a therapist's recommendations. There was no other way she could have forgiven him for the fight the night before so easily. That was ridiculous. He stabbed a piece of chicken with his fork, but didn't bring it to his mouth. Was it really family or a career? He had to admit he enjoyed his job, but once upon a time, he'd liked coming home to Christie. She'd gotten him through the past year, he'd leaned on her, even if he wouldn't talk to her. He'd yelled at her when things didn't go his way.

He heard a footstep behind him. "Christie." He put his hand on the back of the stool next to him, gesturing for her to come sit. She sat, but he could feel the tension, like she was afraid of what he'd say. "No more fighting, huh?"

"If we've had a bad day at work, we don't have to bring it out on each other."

He grimaced. That hadn't exactly been a bad day at work. He just had trouble adapting sometimes, accepting—maybe she couldn't forgive him until he learned to forgive himself. But how was Jim Dunbar supposed to accept the fact that he was going to screw up, that it was inevitable? "I am really sorry—"

"No more fighting means no more apologizing," she said and slid off the stool.

"Christie!" He dropped the fork on the plate, listened to it bounce off. He slid his hand on the counter, picked it up, put it in place so he wouldn't have to worry about it later. He turned and slid off his own stool. "I'm going out tonight."

"With the guys?"

"Sort of undercover." Jim felt the corners of his mouth turning up. "Marty and Karen and I are going to ask around at a bar." He waited for her to shower him with misgivings, remind him how badly things had gone the last time he'd gone undercover, ask if it was safe.

"Good luck," she said.

"It's kinda a sleazy place. You wanna help me pick out something to wear?" He cocked his head to the side, waiting.

"Sure…"

She was almost smiling again. Jim wasn't sure what was going on, but there was a note in Christie's voice that he hadn't trusted. He didn't believe her about the no more fighting, no more apologizing. Her voice had trembled. She'd always been very good at keeping her emotions off her face, but now that he didn't rely on that to know how she was feeling, he was picking up nuances he wouldn't have noticed before. That little waver when she said 'no more apologizing.' He wondered what it meant. Until then, he was going to pay his penance, make her smile, try to actually understand her for once.

"You want to go out for your birthday? Maybe Friday?" He sat on the end of the bed and listened to her sort through the dresser drawers. She threw something at him that hit him in the chest. He reached as it fell into his lap, running his hands over the cotton of a t-shirt.

Christie smiled. "Like a date?"

"Yeah."

"Plans in advance, making reservations?"

"Buying flowers." He pulled the t-shirt on.

"It's black. It'll go with your jacket." She opened the closet door. "Maybe we can go out dancing afterward?"

Jim shrugged. He made a face, knowing from the sounds she was making that her back was to him. "I guess. As long as they don't play "Call Me Irresponsible" I'll be okay."

Christie laughed.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Jim reached up and put his folded cane on Karen's dashboard.

"You're not bringing that?" she asked awkwardly.

He pulled off his sunglasses and set them next to the cane. "I'm not blind tonight, remember?" He turned and smiled at her.

"Right." She got out of the car.

Jim did likewise. He got out and stretched, taking deep breaths of cold air, resituating his black leather jacket. He put his hands in his pockets and leaned nonchalantly up against the side of the car, getting into character, waiting for Karen to join him.

"Where's the bar?"

She stepped up next to him. "A couple blocks down. I didn't think driving right up to it would be the best thing. Not if we want to be inconspicuous."

Jim nodded. He pushed out the sides of his jacket, hands still in the pockets. "I don't think this guy would ever let you drive, anyway."

"Sexist, nice touch," she said blandly. "What should I call you? We never talked about that."

"Anything but Ted." His hands clenched in his pockets.

"We're just asking questions tonight. No drug deals."

"Good." Jim straightened up and reached over for her. He stopped just short of her and left his arm there. "You know this is just business, right? Anything that happens, I'm sorry, I don't mean it."

"Right. We already agreed, you and I are an item, we stick close so no one will notice you can't see."

She sounded a little nervous. Jim tentatively finished his reach, bypassing her arm to put his arm around her waist. He moved carefully, keeping his face averted, feeling himself start to blush, barely brushing her clothes as his hand came to rest on the side of her stomach opposite him. Despite the fact that he was barely touching her, he could still feel her muscles tighten, hear a slight intake of breath.

"Okay?" he asked. He didn't pull her any closer.

She relaxed a little. "Okay." She started walking down the quiet street, picking up her pace, probably from cold and nerves.

Jim listened to the traffic, but was relieved to find almost no other foot traffic yet. Karen hurried on and Jim's hand slipped, he nearly lost his grip. He let his hand slide into place at her elbow.

"You okay?" she asked.

"We're going a little fast."

She slowed.

"Nah, it's okay. Just lemme know when we get closer, we'll resituate. It's easier to walk this way, anyway."

"Okay."

They quickly covered the distance, then Karen stopped. "I can see it."

* * *

Karen watched Jim's face as he slipped his arm around her waist. His jaw was set, he wouldn't look at her, barely touched her. Again, she felt her muscles tense against her will and hoped he didn't notice. This was just Jim, and it wasn't real. Despite what he'd done in the past, he wasn't the type of guy to make the same mistake twice. His fingers splayed at her side, settling on her stomach.

"You know, if my wife saw me right now, she'd kill me." He smiled down at her.

"I thought you told her?"

"I did. She'd kill me anyway."

Karen nodded, figuring he was close enough to feel the movement, her head at his shoulder. His gaze was lowered, embarrassment etched on his face, but the way his head was tilted it was almost like he was staring down her leather jacket and through her flimsy shirt. She glanced down to make sure no one else would be able to see anything. She felt sluttish enough in her tight leather pants.

"Should we go in?" he asked. "Marty's probably already here."

"Yeah." She pushed a little closer to him and he stepped back, probably thinking she needed space. "Hey, Cujo, you can't be so nervous around a broad or someone's gonna notice."

Jim laughed. "Cujo?"

"In honor of Hank. Sometimes I think that's who he wants to be."

"You think?"

"You should see this look he gets in his eyes, sometimes, like at a crime scene."

Jim squeezed her with a smile. "I bet he's at home bored, wishing he was here getting some action. Christie ignores him."

"We'll have to make it up to him." She cleared her throat. "I mean, like take him out for lunch or something."

Jim nodded. "Just friends."

"Just friends."

"Come on, Betty."

"Betty?"

"Boop."

"You think I look like Betty Boop?" she asked, offended.

Jim laughed. "I really have no idea what you look like. Not really. I just thought it would be a good personality match. Betty and Cujo."

She laughed, then tried to giggle. "I'm not much of one for giggling, but I'll try the airhead thing."

Jim put on a stern face. "Let's go, Betty. Get a move on. The night is wasting."

He kept his head down as they walked into the bar. He leaned down to nuzzle her ear in the loud room and quietly said, "What's it look like?"

Karen almost pulled back when his lips touched her ear, his breath blew at her hair. You're Betty, she lectured herself. This means nothing.

She looked around in the dim light and smoke. Undesirables pressed around the bar. Broken windowpanes, holes in the walls, a few candles set out in case someone forgot a lighter. She leaned up. "Dark, lots of people. Scary people. We could probably arrest most of them if we had time."

Jim's mouth twitched. "Next time." He pulled her closer. "You sound too matter-of-fact for a Betty. Chill, kid." He closed his eyes. "It's all just for show." He pushed her hair away from her ear with his chin, moving around behind her, probably looking like he was really making out with the back of her neck as he stood behind her talking quietly. "Go to the bar. Which way?"

"Right," she said and forced a laugh, put on a plastic smile. She reached behind her to one of Jim's hands on her back and took it.

He carefully laced his fingers through hers and put his other hand on her shoulder.

She headed for the bar, but tilted her head back to look at him, his gaze looking at the top of her head. "You look like you're manhandling me," she said and laughed honestly.

He grinned. "That's 'cause you won't do what I say."

* * *

Karen stopped walking. Jim listened a moment, picking out sounds up and down the counter, laying it out in his mind. He put one hand to either side of Karen and reached out confidently. His hands latched onto the bar and he leaned forward, taking Karen with him.

"Lemme know when the bartender shows," he said, pressing her stomach against the bar.

She tugged his sleeve a second later, so unobtrusive Jim himself barely noticed. Her hand fluttered on top of his and a quick motion with her finger pointed a direction.

Jim looked up before the voice boomed, loud, the kind of voice belonging to an ex-linebacker, a huge guy. "What can I get you?"

Jim ordered a shot and a beer for himself. "And the lady'd like to have Sex on the Beach," he said and laughed bawdily.

He felt Karen's elbow come back lightly into his ribs. "Cool it, Cujo," she said in his ear. "I thought you didn't want to stand out."

He nuzzled her ear again with his eyes closed. "How's a drunk stand out in a bar?"

Two glasses and a bottle hit the counter and Jim pulled out a roll of singles, throwing several onto the counter. He reached forward, but Karen pulled his hand back before he could touch any of the drinks. He was so close he felt her reach out and pull one closer. He stretched with his opposite hand, running it down her arm until it touched the shot. He tipped it back quickly.

Karen picked up their drinks as Jim pretended to fondle her, wrapping his arms around her tightly. "Find a table, but one close."

He felt out of place, not just a cop in a bar full of criminals, but relying on Karen like this. Holding her close. She was the wrong size. She wasn't Christie by a long shot. But he couldn't pull back. He was afraid if he didn't stay close he'd make a mistake, give himself away.

Karen plunked the drinks down on a table. Jim finally disentangled himself. The bar was getting louder and he couldn't hear the next thing she said. He reached around her, letting her go, pulling out a chair for himself. She disappeared, but he heard her slide a chair around closer to his as he sat. She pushed the beer across the table until it touched the back of his hand. He grabbed it, then pulled his chair closer to hers. "I couldn't hear you," he said, leaning down.

"Marty's here. I saw him in back."

Jim shuddered as her lips touched his ear, brushed his hair. She was close enough he could feel lipstick on her lips. If just felt wrong, but he was glad his conscience was kicking in. He reached over to keep one hand on the back of her chair so he could feel every movement she made as she cased the bar.

* * *

They had decided Karen would be the one to start making inquiries and, if she caught anything, to send it Jim's way. She squeezed his hand before standing.

Jim slumped drunkenly over his beer, staring at the table, his eyes unfocused, a slight frown making the lines on his face stand out. Karen turned away. The sight of Jim like that made her want to stay, but she knew it was all part of the act.

"How many's he had?" Marty asked near her ear.

"Just one."

Marty laughed.

She leaned closer to his ear so no one would be able to hear. "He thought he'd look less blind." Karen put on a ditsy pose and twirled her hair around a finger.

"He almost looks stoned."

Karen laughed back, but felt guilty as she looked over at Jim. She could have set him up at the bar to make inquiries of his own. "Anything?"

"Not yet."

She moved away, making new friends and getting a feel for the place. A couple times she felt close enough to broach the subject, just hinting there was someone she needed out of the way, but no mess, preferably untraceable.

She watched as Jim finished his beer and a waitress came up in tiny shorts and a shirt tied up to expose her midriff. Jim smiled at the waitress charmingly, made her laugh, kept gesturing with the beer bottle, keeping his gaze on it like he was flirting shyly. Karen had to admit for a minute he didn't look blind at all. Jim reached up and caressed the waitress, pulling her closer so he could talk quietly.

Karen turned away. Maybe Anne was right about that fatal Dunbar charm. The waitress seemed unable to resist him and it made Karen's blood boil momentarily for both her friend and his wife. Then she reminded herself she was looking for information and flirting with guys she'd normally stay away from. Jim was surely doing the same thing.

* * *

"Let's dance," Karen yelled in his ear.

Jim held a hand out to her, grateful he had to hold her close. She'd been gone an hour and he'd added three whiskeys to his first shot and beer.

"How's it going?" he yelled back.

"Kinda hard since the band started. I think a couple people are getting suspicious, since I haven't spent any time with you."

Jim pulled her close on the dance floor, both hands at the small of her back. "Sorry about manhandling you," he said.

"What?" she yelled.

"Nothing. How's Russo?"

"You mean Russ, Betty's ex-boyfriend?"

Jim blinked.

"I had some girl ask. She wanted to get it on with you if we weren't exclusive."

Jim laughed, turning his head up, standing straight for the first time that night. Karen's hand tilted his head back down to face her.

"That's better," she said.

Jim nodded, not moving his gaze from where he thought she was.

"You're a terrible dancer. I thought Christie made you take lessons."

Jim leaned down to hear her better. "Ballroom dancing, not hip hop. You want me to spin you out a few times?"

"I can't picture you ballroom dancing," she yelled.

"Me either!" He couldn't help but grin.

The band ended their set with a couple slower tunes. Jim held Karen close, resting his chin on her head, keeping his eyes closed but concentrating on what was going on around him.

The band stopped and in the sudden quiet it sounded like everyone was yelling. Jim winced and it got quiet a second as everyone lowered their voices, no longer having to shout.

"You wanna sit at the bar for a while?"

Jim shrugged. "Sure." It was getting louder again, smokier, but he could smell Karen's perfume above everything else. He swayed a little, then laughed as he used her for balance. "You know, if I hadn't gone blind, I probably would be putting the moves on you." He slung his arm around her shoulders comradely. "I'm glad I got over that, but I wanted to let you know… you smell good." He shook his head, trying to clear it. "I mean, you're attractive, you know? You deserve a good guy. I'll keep an eye out for you." He laughed at his own choice of words.

Karen put his hand on one of the barstools and he hopped up, kicking his feet in the air like a kid. He pulled her close again with one arm around her back. "Good luck out there." He gave her a hug. "This had been fun, thanks for being my partner."

Then he spun her away and turned toward the bar, pulling his feet up onto the rung of the stool. He ordered a beer.

Someone leaned up next to him. "Hey, Cujo, taking it easy?" Marty ordered a beer for himself.

"Yeah, Russ. Having fun?"

"A bit."

"We should set Tom up with the waitress here. She's really nice." He leaned closer to Russo. "Is she cute?"

"Which one?"

"The nice one."

"How are things with you and Betty?" Marty asked casually.

"Nice kid. We need to find her a nice guy, okay? She deserves it."

Jim looked down at his beer, imagining the bubbles, trying to think of the color. Amber. That's what they called beer. He wondered if the first girl named Amber had been named after a beer.

Marty slugged him lightly in the arm. "I'm gonna mingle."

Jim nodded. "You know, I have problems mingling. Not just in the bar here—thanks for letting me come, by the way, even if I'm not much help—but I have trouble with you guys, too. Sometimes it's hard for me to tell how you guys mean something and how you're reacting… But I think I'm getting more comfortable, you know? With you guys and—" He gestured at his eyes. "I'm getting better at compensating. I think we're all gonna come together."

"Last beer, Cujo."

Jim grabbed his arm and looked closely at him. "I think I can even still walk a straight line, Russ. I know what I'm saying."

"Do you?"

"Yeah. Christie has me on this honesty kick, sharing my feelings. I just wanted you to know. I think we all work pretty well together. I'm still figuring things out in my life, but… I'm getting there."

Jim let Marty go. He really was starting to accept it. So he couldn't see, so what? Marty'd invited him to come undercover. They were all more comfortable together. Things were falling into place.

And the case was finally turning in the right direction, even if they had lost two witnesses.

"You know someone named Rico Artez? Tall black man?" Jim asked the next person to lean up to the bar next to him. It wasn't looking like they were liable to find Pipsqueak, but maybe they'd be able to find Artez.

"No," the man next to him said, then walked away with a drink.

"Artez?" the bartender said. "He stopped coming in here a few weeks ago. Said he'd run into some kind of trouble with his girlfriend. Why?"

"He owes me," Jim said.

"He doesn't have any money," the guy said with a deep laugh.

"Information. He was looking into something for me."

"What kind of information?"

Jim shook his head.

"Look, his girlfriend was here, too. Bugging one of our waitresses."

"Which one?"

"You're not going to cause any problems, are you?"

"No."

"I'll send her over."

Jim nodded.

* * *

"Keep an eye on Cujo," Karen had said as she passed Marty on her way to the restroom.

Marty turned. He hadn't thought Jim was that drunk, but Karen would know, right?

Jim still didn't look drunk. He was talking to one of the waitresses, looking a little too serious for a Cujo. Marty knew Jim's looks and felt his heart start pounding. It looked like Jim had found something.

He shook his head and scanned the bar. There had to be something—his eyes settled on a guy he'd kept an eye on all night. He was an older man, but he fit Sonny's description of the guy he'd talked to about Pipsqueak. And he was finally alone. Marty glanced over at Jim, still looking okay, and headed over.

"I was told you might know someone who could supply me with a certain little deadly something."

The man didn't even blink. "That was a long time ago." He looked Marty up and down. "You're the second person to ask me about that certain little something." He gestured for Marty to sit across the booth and Marty slid in. "You're treading dangerous waters."

"You know Pipsqueak?"

"He doesn't even go by that name anymore. He's cleaned up his act."

"Where can I find him?"

The man just sat and watched Marty, so Marty watched back.

* * *

Karen had moved Jim back to a table and Jim had resumed his drunken stupor look, even though he was feeling more sober than he had an hour before.

"You like the waitresses, huh?" she'd asked as she'd clamped a hand on his arm.

She'd left him, saying she had a couple people who might know something.

A hand clamped the back of Jim's chair and its twin hit the table in front of him as a man leaned over behind Jim. Jim glanced up, then back down. "You girlfriend sent me to talk to you," a deep voice said. The voice sounded young, though it was already starting to be eroded by years of cigarette smoking. "I might be able to help, in more ways than one."

Jim was at attention. He gestured at an empty chair, but the guy didn't move from behind him. He flicked a card onto the table next to Jim's hand. Jim put his hand over the top of it, sliding it to the edge of the table and then tucking it into the inside pocket of his leather jacket.

"First, I thought you should know your girl's getting it on with some guy in back."

Jim's jaw clenched. Karen? With one of these creeps? Was it consensual? Karen could take care of herself, and if not, Marty'd see, or maybe she'd scream. "I know," he said, like he'd seen it himself. "We're just looking for some information."

The guy laughed perversely. "If that's the case, maybe I'll give her that info myself." He turned.

Jim reached back and grabbed him. "She told you to give that information to me. Touch her and I'll bash in your skull."

He let go and faced straight ahead again. The man laughed a little, more nervously.

"Word is you're looking for someone to be put out."

"Maybe."

"Is it a good cause?"

"Yup."

"Call my uncle." He tapped the table where he'd set the card. "He deals in all sorts of nasty chemicals."

"Is it untraceable? I'd hate to have it come back to me, you know."

The man leaned down to speak lowly right behind him. "Once it's in the blood, no one will ever know."

Then the man disappeared into the crowd.

* * *

Karen watched Marty walk away. They'd just finished a little rendezvous in the coat closet, so to speak, but it was more like a tryst in the hallway by the bathrooms, smelling of vomit and urine and other unsavory bodily malfunctions. She was glad the bulbs were burned out back there, but she stayed away from the walls nonetheless.

Next to an old payphone with the cord cut and the handset missing, she'd leaned close to Marty to keep from being overheard. A guy had walked past and stood outside the lady's room, so Karen had to lean closer to Marty while the man watched them, finally draping her arm around Marty's neck, snaking one leg around the back of his, pulling him so close it wouldn't be possible to tell just what they were doing. Maybe this was why so many female spies were actually prostitutes in history; the only way to share information in public was to look really cozy.

She'd finally sent Marty away, looking out the hallway to take a quick check on Jim, then as soon as she turned around she found herself face to face with a man. A flannel shirt and jeans too tight, hadn't shaved in a couple days, that depraved look of a stalker in his eyes, she'd seen him watching her a couple times that night. He ran a hand down her arm and Karen couldn't restrain the look of disgust that washed over her features.

"Hey, pretty lady, you've been awfully cozy with a couple guys tonight. Don't turn your back on one more," he said.

"Not interested."

He followed her closely as she tried to leave, rubbing up against her rear, then reaching one hand around to pull her back by the stomach. Karen turned to hit him, but he restrained her other arm before she could get it up. Karen yelled out, pushed the guy away as he bent to kiss her, kicked out one leg, sweeping his feet to off-balance him, then pulling him toward her, side-stepping in time so he'd fall.

Marty was standing in the hall already. He shrugged and almost smiled. "Not bad." He held a hand out to help extract her from the man's grabby hands as he tried to raise up. "I'll keep him busy, let's just go. Give you a call in a few minutes."

Karen ran to where Jim was standing, looking confused and outraged and lost at the same time, pushing through people who were pushing back to see what the commotion was and if they could get a piece of the action.

* * *

Jim heard Karen cry out. He pushed back his chair and was on his feet, spinning, then unsure what to do. He didn't know where she was, just that there were a lot of tables between them. All he could do was stand there, waiting for her to cry out again, the wait killing him as his chest contracted. He felt like he had in that restaurant with Christie, standing there, waiting for someone to speak up, at their mercy until they did. He wasn't on equal footing until he knew for sure where someone was.

He shouldn't have suggested to Marty that he and Karen could handle coming. He'd told Christie no woman could protect herself from being attacked, and he finally realized he'd have to put Karen in that category, too. Where the hell was she and was she okay? She was a cop, his rational side said, she could take care of herself. But the rest of him was saying Karen was in trouble, something was happening, and he had no idea what, where, or how to help.

He tuned all his senses, waiting, prepared. He heard a thump, hoped it wasn't Karen. She'd been hurt, though not badly, on their first case when Lyman had thrown her against the wall. She'd never admitted to him how badly, but he'd heard other officers asking her about it at the house, taking her statement. She was a tough kid, wouldn't complain, even if she had been knocked unconscious.

Five seconds, maybe ten, and Jim couldn't handle the wait any longer. He took a few steps forward, his hands just in front of him to catch a chair or a table. Jim turned his head to the side, listening as other people got up to check, nosy, getting in his way.

Someone grabbed his hand.

"Let's go," Karen said.

"You okay?" But he was already moving with her. He put his hand on her arm so they could move quicker through the crowd.

"Yeah. Wasn't much." She pushed the door open and they hurried down the street. "Like I told you, I attract the wrong kinds of guys."

She stepped off the curb and Jim didn't have time to react, stumbled to regain his footing as his feet hit the street. She slowed her pace a little without asking if he was okay and Jim was grateful.

"Marty was going to keep an eye on the guy, then slip out the back."

The were both breathing hard when they made it to the car. Jim reached out and grabbed the door handle, sliding easily into the seat as Karen hurried to her side, started the engine.

"No one's following."

Jim turned to her and grinned as she pulled out into traffic. "I'm proud of you, Karen, starting bar fights with such panache."

She laughed.

* * *

Karen glanced over at Jim. He was looking out the window—or whatever it was he did. Probably just thinking, but he looked more relaxed than she'd ever seen him.

He turned back toward her after a minute and she watched his face alternate between light and shadow as they drove between streetlights. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a card.

"I hope it's useful," he said as he turned it over in his hands. He finally held it up to her and she reached for it. "Is it blank?" he asked with a grin.

Karen glanced down in the dark. "Nope. I can't read it, but it's not blank."

"I talked to someone about Artez and Samantha, too."

"So you think, since they went to the same bar as this infamous Pipsqueak, there might be a connection?"

"Maybe. I didn't find anything out about Pipsqueak, though."

"Me either. But Marty said he found the guy Sonny talked to." Her cell phone rang and she slipped the card into her pocket and checked the readout. "Speak of the devil," she muttered and flipped the phone open. "Hey."

Jim shifted in his seat and Karen saw a look that might have been jealousy, but it was gone by the time they got under the next streetlight.

Was he jealous because Marty'd been there, keeping an eye on that guy while they got away? Or because Marty'd been able to find the guy Sonny'd told them about? Or had she read him wrong?

Karen listened as Marty filled her in on how the guy'd tried to go after her, but he'd tripped him, almost starting a bar fight as the guy fell into the crowd, and how outraged drinkers grabbed him up. Marty'd slipped out the back in the confusion. Then he started teasing her about putting the moves on both him and Jim.

"You know, tonight, this date with Jim, that's what it's supposed to be like, Karen," Marty said. "Not like those guys you've been dating."

Karen glanced quickly at Jim, obliviously staring out the window again, his expression blank, his blue eyes upturned toward the stars no one could see in the city. She'd felt that side of him that Anne had known, laidback, holding her closely, and she almost wretched at how easy it had seemed for him to forget his wife and hold her. "Uh, right. Yeah."

"We'll talk in the morning," Marty said.

She snapped the phone shut.

Jim turned back and smiled. "What did Marty have to say?"

Karen shook her head. "He said I should date guys more like you," she said wryly.

Jim turned away. Karen thought he looked pained, his reflection in the window clearly showing his lips pressed together. She saw him clench one of his hands, unclench, clench, work his jaw. He finally shook his head. "Sorry."

"Hey, it's not your fault you're a jerk." She patted his hand quickly and he relaxed. "Or maybe it is. Just one more thing for me to make sure I _don't_ get in a relationship."

Jim was silent a minute and Karen concentrated on driving.

"You know, tonight… was really… awkward," he finally got out. "You're not my wife."

"What about Anne?" she asked quietly.

"Now see, that's where I'm a jerk. She wasn't my wife, either, it just took me longer to see it."

* * *

Jim unfurled his cane as he unfolded himself from the car and stood on the curb. He leaned back in the open door and smiled. "This was fun, we should do it again sometime, Betty."

Karen laughed. "Take care, Cujo."

Jim reached for the top of the door. "Goodnight."

"Hey, Jim," Karen called.

He grabbed the door he'd been closing.

"Your sunglasses."

"Oh, yeah." He bent down and reached for the dashboard.

"I have them," she said awkwardly.

Jim reached carefully into the open space. Her hand could have been anywhere, hovering, holding his glasses. He stopped his own searching hand and let her put the glasses in there. "Thanks."

"No prob. See you tomorrow."

"See you." He slammed the door and turned. She'd said she parked directly in front of the door, so he squared himself with the car and held his cane out. He listened as Karen drove away, apparently confident he could find his own way, even if he couldn't find his own sunglasses.

His hand safely on the outer door, Jim smiled. It really had been a nice night. Much less tense than the last time they'd done undercover work, but this time he'd had Karen and Marty right there.

"How'd it go?" Christie asked.

"Good," he replied.

"There's something I haven't seen in a while," she said as he shrugged out of his leather coat. He cocked his head to the side, waiting. "A smile."

Jim smiled broader. He stretched, releasing the rest of the tension from the evening, mostly little things that were easily dealt with. "It was good. Really."

He moved into the living room and nearly threw himself on the couch, stretching out, hands behind his head. "Really good," he mumbled, suddenly exhausted.

Hank padded over and Jim scratched behind his ears.

Christie sat on the edge of the couch by Jim's chest and he wrapped his arms around her middle, smiling contentedly. She reached out a hand and stroked his hair, then froze.

"Hmm?" he mumbled, his eyes half-closed.

"What's this?" She fingered his ear. "You have lipstick on your ear," she said icily. "Jim—" She pulled away and stood.

Jim laughed and sat up, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He laughed more. "It's okay. It's Karen's."

"That's supposed to make me feel better?"

"Aww." Jim stood up. "Don't cry until you have the whole story." He took her in his arms briefly and squeezed, then went back to the table to grab his cell phone, carefully feeling the buttons and dialing. He held the phone out to Christie, who took it hesitantly. "Just Karen."

"Karen?" Christie said into the cell. "No… He's okay. Uh, Karen, what color's your lipstick?"

Jim shook his head, but he had to smile. Christie would make sure he couldn't lie, couldn't set up an alibi. She wouldn't just ask Karen if it was true she'd been whispering in his ear all night, she'd ask something Jim himself couldn't know.

Jim waited when Christie hung up, expecting her to immediately apologize. She touched his hand with the phone and he took it.

"She said she was keeping an eye on you to keep you honest, that I shouldn't worry," Christie said slowly, measuring the words out herself. "How does Karen know you had an affair? _Why_ does Karen know?"

Jim grimaced and turned away to set his cell down. "She already knew," he said awkwardly. He hated to admit it, but Karen had probably known before even Christie herself. "It was her friend."

"And this is supposed to make me feel better?" Christie exploded.

"No." Jim reached out and took her hands before she could escape. "I didn't tell her. She knew when I started working with her."

"And she just got over it? Just like that?"

"Not really. I still don't think she trusts me completely, but she's had a bad history of guys herself. We're all the same."

Christie sighed. "You are all the same."

Jim tried to pull her closer. "Christie, please—"

"I can't get made because Karen already knew, right?"

"It was my mistake. I'm—"

"I know you're sorry, Jimmy! But when Karen sees me—"

"I'm sure she's not thinking of how I cheated on you." Christie sniffed. "I'll apologize for the rest of my life if I have to."

She snuggled up to him, still sniffling.

Jim shivered. He had to admit, this felt better, holding Christie close, not Karen. He didn't want to admit how close he'd had to get to Karen tonight, how her lipstick had got on his ear, probably in his hair. He probably smelled like her—

"I need a shower." He pulled away. "I stink."

"That you do, detective," Christie said. "Who were you tonight?" She followed him to the bedroom.

"Cujo," he said, pulling his shirt over his head.

Christie laughed. "How'd you come up with that one?"

"In honor of Hank."

"I never would have thought you'd turn out to be such a compassionate dog owner."

"You kidding? Most the time, I feel like Hank owns me."


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

Jim listened to Tom sit down at his desk without saying hello. He pulled off his sunglasses and turned. "Tom, what are you wearing?" Jim asked and wrinkled his nose.

"Ha, ha, Jim, I'm not falling for that one. Not about to take fashion advice from a blind guy."

Jim smiled and slipped his sunglasses back on.

"How'd it go last night?"

"Good," Jim said.

Tom laughed. "You got a stupid grin on your face. Spill."

Jim nodded and tried to wipe the smile off his face. "We learned a lot, we had fun. You should have been there; Karen almost started a bar fight."

"Karen? Our Karen?"

"Who else? I'm surprised she doesn't take bodyguards with her when she goes out."

"Because I can take care of myself, Jim," Karen said, sounding peeved.

"I know. I was there, remember?" He spun his chair toward her. "I know you can take care of yourself."

"Thanks," she said quietly.

"What else?" Tom prodded.

"Jim got a little drunk," Karen said, smiling.

Jim felt his face getting red. "Just a little. But I'll have you know I was still totally in control of all my faculties."

"Just not your tongue," Marty said.

Jim looked up, startled, not having heard Marty come in.

"You learn anything useful on your drunken rendezvous?" Fisk asked, his tone clipped.

Jim's head swiveled. He still hadn't recovered from Marty showing up; how long had Fisk been there?

"Which no one bothered to tell me about, by the way," Fisk continued. "What if something would have happened?"

"Boss…" Karen said.

"We were just asking questions," Marty defended.

Jim hung his head.

"And the last time you all went undercover?"

Jim averted his gaze further, anger swelling in his stomach.

"We kept an eye on him," Marty said.

Jim snapped his head up. "Boss, all due respect, but that was one time. We don't get a second chance? I think we all learned last time—"

"And we watched out for each other this time," Karen said.

"So Karen almost starting a bar fight…?"

"A joke, boss," Jim said, keeping his eyes down.

"Just a guy hitting on me."

Jim clenched his fist tightly in his lap. The conversation was going so badly he was sure any second Fisk was going to order him to stay behind in the future, just in case something happened to Karen and he couldn't help her.

"Don't let it happen again," Fisk ordered. "These little things, you run them by me first. Do you all understand me?"

They chorused like schoolchildren.

"Now, that said, what'd you learn?"

There was a moment of silence. Jim felt the necessity to break it, since they'd only been reprimanded in light of him being in on the bar escapade. "Marty found the guy Sonny'd talked to."

"And Jim got a card from someone who offered us a bit of untraceable poison." Karen started typing.

"And Karen tripped this guy—you shoulda seen it, boss," Marty said, grinning.

"Marty," Karen said, sounding like she was blushing and trying to hide behind her laptop.

"She also got several leads," Marty continued.

"None of which panned out," she said glumly.

"Only because we split early," Jim reminded her.

"My fault again."

"Karen…"

"Next time we go out, I'm dressing as a man."

Jim and the other guys laughed.

"No real problems last night?" Fisk asked.

"No, really," Karen said.

"We're really starting to come together, right Jim?" Marty teased. "All getting more comfortable as a squad…"

Jim cleared his throat and glanced away. A small laugh escaped, despite his embarrassment. "Right, Marty."

"Really?" Fisk asked.

"Really," Marty replied. "Dunbar and I had a little heart-to-heart."

Jim looked away again.

"Good to hear it."

"I can't find anything on this card," Karen said, stopping typing. "All it has is a pager number—we'd have to call it and hope for the best."

"So much for that," Jim said, knowing they were already treading on thin ice with the boss.

"We'll keep it in mind," Fisk said.

"But no more deals with the blind guy," Jim said, facing Fisk as closely as he could and forcing a smile.

"Right."

"So, Russ, it all hangs on you," Jim said, turning.

Marty cleared his throat, but didn't say anything right away. "We had us a little staring contest…"

"But he never told you anything?" Karen prodded.

"Nothing. I asked all sorts of questions, believe me, and he just stared at me. I asked around about him, but no one had a name, so I'm going to spend the morning going through mug books and hope we can haul him in on something for leverage."

Fisk sighed. "Well, I'm glad you three had fun last night."

Marty grumbled something.

"Jim, my office," Fisk said as he turned to leave them.

Fisk's footsteps hurried away. Jim stood slowly.

"Hey, we got your back, Jim," Marty said.

Jim shook his head. "I realize that, Marty, I'm just not used to needing people to stand up for me." He started away.

"Jim," Karen called. "Don't worry so much."

Jim shut the door to Fisk's office without answering.

"Have a seat," Fisk offered.

Jim shook his head.

"Jim, you know you need to be extra careful, right? Because if something were to happen…"

Jim kept his head down and nodded. It wasn't enough for him to say he'd never let anything happen to Karen.

"Are we clear on that?"

"Yes." Jim raised his gaze. "We're clear."

"You can go."

Jim stepped out the door and headed for his desk, the corners of his mouth drawn, feeling an extra responsibility had been dropped on him. He sighed.

"Jimmy!"

Jim turned toward the hall and cocked his head, trying to place the voice. He grinned, suddenly feeling years younger. "Rob." He stuck his hand out at the approaching footsteps, but had to wait a moment for Rob Mulhaney to finish crossing the squad.

"It's good to see you back on the job again." He clapped Jim on the shoulder. "Not for nothing, but the last time I saw you, you looked like hell."

Jim bit his lip, acutely aware of the other detectives milling around right behind him, listening to every word.

"Robby!" the lieutenant called out his office door. "Come on in."

"Always business," Rob said under his breath to Jim. "I've been trying to get him to relax for years." He touched Jim lightly on the arm. "Can you get to the office okay?"

"Yeah," Jim said quickly. "I can get around no problem. Been awhile since we've seen each other, huh?" He gestured for Rob Mulhaney to go ahead of him, then followed, keeping his gaze to the floor.

"Hey, Gary, you're lucky you got a chance to work with this knucklehead," Rob said. "Jimmy's always been a great detective. Glad he got a chance to come back."

Jim paused in the doorway, then took a step just to the left to make room for the other three detectives.

It was strange seeing people from before, ones he didn't get to see often. So many of them he'd once considered good friends. They called him Jimmy, not Jim. He felt like a different guy, like two separate people. He used to be Jimmy, all laidback, had friends, people respected him. He couldn't imagine Tom and Marty calling him Jimmy. Karen had a couple times, once right before telling him maybe he was lucky he was blind…

Three more bodies shuffled in, the last one shutting the door. They filled the office, moving around to each claim a space. Jim leaned against the wall of windows and crossed his arms.

Rob clamped a hand on Jim's arm a second before pulling the chair just to his left closer to Fisk's desk. He sat, shifted uncomfortably. "I didn't think Jimmy'd even remember anything I told him about my son… but I'm glad he did. Our end of the case has gone stagnant. We had a few leads, friends of… Brian's. They all disappeared before we could get any proof."

"What have you found?" Fisk asked.

"It was all luck. One day three kids showed up at my door, Brian's age. They were looking for him, didn't know he was dead. I didn't tell them, wasn't allowed, with the investigation. No one was supposed to know who didn't need to. But now I'm wondering, if I did tell them… if they could have helped shed some light.

"The girl's name was Mary, the other two were guys, both had played football in high school, thought they couldn't make anything out of their lives. They told me to call them Rock and Bug, I never did get full names.

"Mary was crying when they showed. They just had to find Brian, she kept saying. All I could say was I hadn't seen him, but if they'd help me, maybe I could find him. Who had he been hanging out with, where, how was he making a living…

"Nothing. She cried harder, we just have to find him, don't you understand.

"No, I told 'em I didn't. Does he have something of yours, or is he your boyfriend, or what? They wouldn't answer any of my questions. I finally told 'em, look, I'm a cop, if you're in some sort of trouble, I can help."

Tom cleared his throat. "It's sounding an awful lot like our investigation."

"Did you get anything?" Jim asked. He heard Rob turn in his chair to look over his shoulder.

"In the mail, believe it or not. They asked me for a stamp, said they'd keep in touch, then they left and mailed me this flier for a resort in Indiana. For writers and artists."

"Do you still have the flier?" Jim asked.

"Yeah, but it won't do you any good. I drove all night, left immediately. By the time I got out there, the place was deserted. I tried to contact the guy in charge, but couldn't find him."

"What's the name?" Fisk asked.

"Josiah Wilkins? I really couldn't find anything on him. Didn't seem particularly inclined toward the arts, so I figure he was just the benefactor."

Jim heard papers being sifted through and handed around, listened as Rob's hand crinkled the papers.

"We need to find this guy," Fisk said after a moment of allowing Rob to look through the connections they'd found to Josiah Wilkins.

Rob shifted, slammed the papers on Fisk's desk. "Look, I was supposed to pull you off this case. We were going to take it over. But… I gotta admit you're getting somewhere." He sighed. "Find him." He pushed his chair back and stood. "I gotta go." He turned, froze.

Jim felt a hand on his arm and looked over.

"I gotta go," Rob said, his voice cracking. Anger, frustration, or sadness, Jim couldn't tell. He just nodded back. "Good seeing you, Jimmy. I'll be in touch, maybe take you and Christie out to dinner." He squeezed Jim's arm, then threw open the door and left. Jim let his gaze follow the footsteps out the door.

* * *

Fisk planted himself on the edge of Jim's desk between the detectives. "I just got a fax of the flier and all Rob's personal notes. He can't send us the full file, being a closed investigation, but he thought this might be helpful."

Jim listened as Marty slid over and took the papers, fanning through them and whistling. "One hell of a note taker, ain't he? I'm glad we didn't get the full file."

"He's got a list of names in there, people he found useful. One of 'em's Glenn Bartlett." He stood up. "Keep this all under wraps—we're not supposed to be on this case anymore. Keep that in mind."

"No problem, boss," Karen said. Fisk walked away, closing the door to his office. "Let's spread out in one of the interview rooms and go through all that."

Jim waited until the other three had headed to the room, then slowly followed. He closed the door behind him, listening to where they all were.

"Split it fo—three ways," Karen said from the far left of the table. "Sorry, Jim."

"No problem. You got an empty chair?"

"Side of the table by the window."

Jim nodded and headed to his right.

"By the window?" Marty said. "Really, Karen, how's he supposed to know—"

Jim grimaced. "I've been in this room on enough interviews. I know where the windows are, Marty." He ran his hand along the corner of the table until it touched the chair, pulled it out and plopped down. "Let me know if you find anything useful."

"Don't fall asleep on us over there," Marty said from the chair right in front of the door, directly to Jim's left.

"Wide awake, Marty."

"The boss yell at you about going last night?" Karen asked from across the table.

Jim shrugged, wishing he could grab some papers and get busy searching for clues.

"I mean, it was all our—"

"We should have run it by him first," Jim cut in.

"But he didn't…"

Jim gestured out with both hands. "I'm still here, aren't I?" He turned his head to the right, where the fourth chair usually was. "Hey, Tom—"

"Over here, Jim," Tom said from the left, from the other side of Marty.

Jim turned his head, his mouth still open, and stared.

"I, uh, moved the chair so we could look at the files, not have to read upside down…"

Jim bent his head and ran a hand over his face. "This is turning into such a long day," he muttered. He stood up, not looking at any of the detectives. "I'm going to go get some water."

"Okay," Tom said.

The other two stayed quiet as Jim left the room and shut the door. He stood there a second, his hand on the door, head down, and took a deep breath, eyes closed against the blindness. Then he strode over to the water cooler.

"Jim," Fisk called.

Jim felt the paper cup start to crumble and quickly loosened his grip. He moved to the doorway of Fisk's office.

"I have to look out for the safety of all my detectives, you know that, right?"

Jim nodded. "I know. And I hope you know I would never endanger any of them."

"I do."

"Thanks," he said awkwardly.

"It's nothing personal. You're a good detective and—"

Jim held up a hand. "Boss, you don't have to apologize."

"I should have yelled at you all."

"It's okay. I'm still the wild card here, right?"

"If it's okay, why aren't you with the others?"

Jim held up the paper cup of water.

"Oh." Fisk moved something on his desk. "Uh, Robby called back. He's looking into Pipsqueak and that Uncle Josiah some more."

"Good." Jim nodded.

"You can go…"

Jim turned and headed back to the interview room. All he heard when he walked in was the rustling of papers. He closed the door quietly.

"Anything?" he asked.

"Not yet," Karen said.

Jim headed for his chair slowly.

"Hey, Jim, what were you going to ask me?" Tom asked.

Jim felt the heat rising in his cheeks again. "I don't remember." He frowned. "Couldn't have been important." He pulled out his chair but didn't sit. "Who has that list of names? If you give me some, I'll start running them."

A paper slid across the table. "Knock yourself out," Marty said.

Jim slid his hand across the table until it touched the paper. "Is it typed?"

"Uh… no."

"Read me a couple." He pushed the paper back.

Marty picked it up and read him a few names. Jim pushed in his chair and quickly left the room.

Jim ran the names, then hurried back, throwing the door open so fast it banged against the wall. "They're dead."

"Who? All of them?" Marty asked.

"Give me the next three."

Jim rushed back to his desk so fast he bumped into someone, but ignored it in his haste.

Back in the interview room he shook his head. "Dead."

"You sure?" Karen asked.

Jim gave her a disparaging look and pursed his lips.

"Sorry," she said.

Jim pulled out the chair and sat down backwards, resting his crossed arms on the backrest. "If all these people are dead…"

"Because they were helpful," Tom said.

"Someone doesn't want them talking to the cops," Karen said.

"You want me to finish the list?" Jim asked, feeling useful.

"Not right now," Marty said. "We're starting to dig out some useful stuff from all this crap. I don't want to have to go through it twice."

Jim faced straight ahead. "I'm ready."

"I got the notes on Glenn Bartlett," Tom said.

Jim clenched his jaw. It was kind of strange, getting a statement from a dead man.

"Keep in mind, they're just looking for the Mulhaney kid."

Jim nodded. "Now's not the time for dramatic effect, Tom."

Marty chuckled.

""Glenn likes to stare at fire,"" Tom read.

"What?" Karen asked.

"Give me that," Marty ordered

Jim head papers crinkling, guessed Marty had yanked it from Tom's hand.

""Glenn likes to look at fire,"" Marty read.

The papers crinkled again.

"I just said that, man. Find your own interesting information."

"Who said that was interesting?"

"It's about our DOA, isn't it?"

Jim grinned. "I like chocolate chip cookies, but that doesn't mean it's relevant."

"Exactly," Marty said.

"Mulhaney wrote it down. Maybe it's pertinent."

Jim chuckled. "You're on a roll, Tom, keep it going."

"He even put a star by it… says he had to light a candle before the kid would say anything."

"A bit of a pyro?" Marty asked. "How's that gonna help us now?"

"Mulhaney says it seemed like the kid couldn't talk unless he was watching something burn."

"So he was psychotic."

"That's just weird," Karen said.

"Astute observation isn't weird," Tom defended. "At least Mulhaney figured out how to get him to talk, right?"

"There's a lot of weird stuff about this case," Jim finally said. "Maybe it's relevant, maybe it's not."

"Thank you, Jim," Tom said.

"He wasn't exactly agreeing with you," Karen chided.

"But he wasn't disagreeing. I can appreciate it. I'll take what I can get, okay? This whole file's messed up."

"Keep going, Tom, I'm hooked," Jim said with a grin.

"The only thing it doesn't have is his favorite cookie… or his family… or his address… social security number."

"No important stuff," Marty clarified.

"Right."

"And about the case?" Jim asked to get them back on track.

"He said they were playing police officer one night, passing Brian's badge back and forth, visiting convenience stores and strip malls and pretending they were there on police business."

"When?" Jim asked.

"Uh, no specific date, but it sounds like Brian was with them."

"So they were friends."

"I guess. It almost sounds like they were high… Then it says they had to push Brian in the creek…"

Jim sat up straighter. "Read it."

""Left the shop, laughing, and headed for the middle of nowhere. Brian's a good guy, so we stopped and pushed him in a creek.""

"Didn't he drown?" Marty asked. "Jim?"

"I thought so…" Jim looked over at Marty. "But if he's connected with our case, I'd almost bet he was poisoned first."

"They were high?" Karen asked.

"You think this guy deals in poisons and street drugs?" Tom asked.

"And meds," Jim added, thinking of how Samantha would have needed insulin and Artez would have needed something to stop his seizures.

"A pharmaceutical genius," Marty summed up.

"So why'd they kill Brian? Does it say?" Jim asked.

"Nah. He doesn't get specific. Mulhaney made a note to talk to the kid again."

"And the note's from…?"

"October 3."

"So a few weeks before we found him. He was talking to a cop. Maybe someone found out, so they had him killed," Jim sketched out.

"Or maybe the poison was just this new drug," Marty suggested. "You take it a while, it goes bad in your system."

Jim shifted uncomfortably, running his hands along the back of his chair. "Do we have anything specific?"

"Still looking," Karen said. "Mulhaney sent over notes on everyone he'd interviewed."

"Do you think they all really died?" Marty asked.

Jim looked over.

"'Cause, you know, DeLana and her brother, they're not going under their own names, right?"

"So maybe they just disappeared…" Karen said. "And they're using aliases?"

"If they're just disappeared, they can still be found."

Jim shook his head. "But how?"

"You work on that while the rest of us trudge through these files," Marty said mischievously.

Jim smiled a little. "Thanks, Marty. Why don't you be the blind guy this time and I'll finish the files?"

Marty chuckled. "Not this time."

* * *

"Has anyone found Artez's body yet?" Jim asked, leaning back in his chair.

"Come on, Jim, Marty's our resident pessimist," Tom said.

Jim gestured at his computer. "Every single name I've run has come up as dead."

"Yeah, but I'm running the photos, maybe we'll find some of them."

Jim sighed. "Artez didn't even tell us anything."

"He's not dead yet."

"But if he turns up—"

"He won't."

"What'll he have died for?"

"For saving his sister, right?"

"If she even is his sister, which I doubt. He definitely wasn't father of his own son." They'd just heard back from the paternity test on Clem. "I wish you guys would have gotten DeLana to talk."

"She was pretty upset," Tom said. "She might have talked to you."

"And I can't go down there," he said, frustrated enough he lashed out and hit his desk, sending his sunglasses skittering.

"Careful, Sundance."

Jim grabbed the glasses and stood up. "I'm going to take Hank out."

"You do that."

Jim took Hank down to the park. The leaves were mostly off the trees, crunching underfoot as they walked. Jim kicked out, but heard only a couple scrape across the sidewalk. He'd need to kick something more substantial than a pile of leaves to make himself feel better.

These long, drawn-out cases, sometimes Jim didn't mind them. The more intricate, the more fascinating. But in this case, lives were at stake. Not just DeLana and her kids, and Artez if he was still alive, but all those people like Glenn Bartlett. Were they all really dead? Or, like Marty'd suggested, was there a chance they could be found, living under pseudonyms? Would they even be in the city anymore if that was the case?

Jim heard something small run through the leaves on his right—a rabbit or a squirrel—but Hank barely turned his head, just enough to make sure it wasn't an immediate threat. Jim ordered him to find a bench, then sat facing the dog, scratching his head. "Good boy." Hank yawned. Jim played his hands through the long fur, his mind racing on the case.

They needed to find Samantha's family.

They needed to find the person supplying these drugs and poisons.

And just what was the connection that would leave two cousins dead within such a short time, and one other person missing?

Where was Artez anyway?

And who was going to be next?

Hank licked Jim's hand. Jim leaned closer to the dog. "Hank…" Jim sighed. Hank sighed back. "Exactly."

* * *

"Jim!" Karen said, hustling over as soon as he got back. "Marty and Tom just got Mrs. Whittleton into Room 1." She grabbed his wrist.

"Mrs…?"

"Samantha's mom!" She started pulling him and Hank toward the observation room.

Jim pulled his arm back. "We're coming." He slowed his pace a little.

"We? Oh, hi, Hank."

Jim followed Karen with Hank in tow. She pushed open the door.

"Hey, Jim," Fisk greeted.

"Hey."

He shrugged out of his coat in the stuffy little room and leaned against the wall with the one-way mirror.

"…you hear that made you come?" Tom was asking.

"My sister called."

"Did you know we've been trying to call?"

Jim turned to Karen. "She ID the body yet?"

"Yeah," Karen said quietly.

"I'd just heard from Samantha this morning. She's been in Europe, but she calls every couple days," Mrs. Whittleton said.

"She called this morning?" Marty asked.

"Yes."

"And what did you talk about?" Tom asked.

"She said she was in Paris, everything was fine, she'd call in a couple days."

"That's it?"

"I was out of the house. She left a message. So when I kept getting messages that you had her body, and then I'd hear from her right after… I knew it wasn't—" She cut herself off. Jim heard her crying.

"Obviously someone wanted you to think she was okay."

Mrs. Whittleton cried harder. "I—now I don't know when the last time I actually talked to her was."

Jim lowered his head and grimaced.

"Do you know what your daughter would have been doing with Glenn Bartlett?" Marty asked.

"They're cousins. Were."

"Or why they'd both end up dead?"

"No, I wouldn't know."

"We heard he came up here to stay with her. Why?"

"I don't know. Samantha wouldn't have told me about Glenn because… My sister and I don't…"

"You mind if we ask why?"

"She had an affair with my husband, is that reason enough?" she asked, her voice cold.

"So your daughter wouldn't have mentioned anything she was doing because of that?" Tom asked.

"Last I knew, she was headed for Europe. She took some time off work—"

"Work? Where?"

"Bloomingdale's."

"You know she only worked there a couple weeks?" Tom asked.

"No."

"So when did she leave for Europe?"

"About six months ago. She said she wouldn't be in contact much."

"Who'd she go with?" Marty asked.

"Her church group."

"Headed by Uncle Josiah?" Tom interjected.

"I think so."

Jim turned toward Karen, but she didn't say anything.

"How long has she known him?"

"Her pastor? I don't know. She left home when she was 18, so probably around then. She always liked going to church."

"Are you aware you have a grandson?" Marty asked.

"What?" The response was a whisper.

"No?"

"Is there anything you can tell us that would help us find who killed your daughter?" Tom asked.

"Obviously I didn't know her as well as I thought." She sniffled. "I don't know. I don't know what's true."

"Don't sweat it. We'll figure out what's true," Tom said. "You just give us contact names and friends."

Jim wrinkled his brow. "Why'd someone go out of their way to make sure Mrs. Whittleton thought her daughter was alive?"

"When everyone else has been getting anonymous phone calls telling them where their children are?" Karen added.

Fisk cleared his throat. "You two have anything you want to ask her before we cut her loose?"

"She sounded honest enough," Jim said. "She really doesn't seem to know anything about her daughter's activities."

"You think someone overlooked the fact that they're cousins?" Karen asked. "When it came down to keeping information from the mom?"

"Either that or they figured the mom would find out from her sister, so they didn't bother to call."

"But the message from Samantha—"

"I'll see if we can get the numbers from the incoming calls to her house this morning," Fisk said. He moved toward the door.

Jim stepped back to let Fisk pass. "You think it was tape recorded?" Jim asked Karen. "Or do you think it was just someone who sounds kind of like her?"

Fisk turned back. "I'll see if she still has it on her answering machine. Do you think you'd recognize the voice?"

Jim shook his head. "I never talked to her myself. Karen?"

"Maybe… She talked enough. I might be able to."

* * *

Jim got home late, but Christie wasn't there yet. He tossed his coat on the coat rack and fed Hank, then sank onto the couch. The big date was tomorrow. He'd made reservations at a restaurant Christie liked. He barely remembered it, not having been there in over a year, but he knew there was a big fountain in the entryway.

He planned to stop and pick up flowers on his way home from work. He'd even offered to leave Hank behind so they could have a romantic evening for two.

Hank whined.

"Sorry, boy, you're not romantic," Jim said. He let his hand fall over the side of the couch and scratched the dog's ears. "Did you eat?" He got up and moved Hank's dish out of the way, washing out the doggie drool. He flipped on the TV for background noise, but sat facing the window. He imagined Christie, how she'd look tomorrow night, all dressed up. He still felt guilty about not saying anything about her birthday right away. They probably could have avoided a big fight if he'd just been upfront about it.

Or not. There were so many variables in their relationship, so many things that had gone wrong. They'd been bound to come out eventually.

The resolution still puzzled him, though. Christie just forgiving him for everything like that. He thought maybe he should ask her again if she wanted to go see the couples' therapist Galloway had mentioned. Maybe she would, maybe she wouldn't; she might be too entrenched with her own therapist. He knew how difficult it was to open up. Sometimes it felt easier to talk to Galloway than to his own wife, but that was because Galloway wasn't a part of his life, he didn't have to see him everyday, didn't have to prove his worth, didn't have to come home to him and worry what he thought. He knew that now, but opening up in the first place? That had been difficult.

He fell asleep on the couch, barely waking when Christie came home.

"Jimmy?"

He stirred a little and grunted.

She rubbed a hand across his forehead, smoothed his hair back.

"You wanna come to bed?"

She covered him with a blanket and he stirred again.

"I'm coming," he mumbled and held a hand out.

She took it and he followed, falling into bed. He snuggled up to her when she joined him, half awake, and fell asleep breathing in the fragrance of her hair.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

"So who would you arrest?" Marty was asking when Jim walked through the doorway.

"Elton John," Tom said. "That brother needs help."

"Fashion police?" Jim asked.

"Hey, Jim," Tom greeted him. "Nah, we're just killing time."

"That's a chargeable offense."

"The boss ran down to talk to the ME. Told us we couldn't do anything else 'til he got back."

"Great. So he learned something?"

"Wouldn't tell us," Marty said.

"So, if you could arrest one person for any reason, who would it be?" Tom asked.

"Vanna White," Karen said, coming in behind Jim. "Do you know how much she gets paid to touch those little screens?"

"Criminal," Tom said.

"Barbara Walters," Jim said. "She knows too much."

"She's kinda creepy, too," Tom said.

"You think that about a lot of people, don't you, Tom?" Jim asked.

"That Crocodile Hunter guy? All those reptiles—he needs help. I had him put in solitary twenty minutes ago."

"The boss has been gone that long?" Jim asked.

The phone rang shrilly in the quiet department and Jim realized hardly anyone was around. The four of them and a couple others, that was all. Marty grabbed the phone. "Detective Russo… Yeah, boss… We're coming." He hung up. "Jumper down the street. The lieutenant's on his way down there now. He was nice enough to invite us along. Apparently most of the precinct is already there."

Jim turned with Hank to go.

"Uh… Jim?" Karen said.

He turned back.

"I think I'll sit this one out, if you don't mind? Looks like they got it covered, if half the precinct's already there."

Jim's face softened. "Yeah, no problem."

"Jim? Coming?" Marty asked.

"Yeah. You know, Hank doesn't need to see this, if it happens." Jim made Hank sit. "Keep an eye on each other, okay?" He pulled out his cane and headed after Marty and Tom.

"Your dog doesn't need to see this?" Marty asked skeptically in the elevator. "Worried he'll be scarred for life?"

"I'm more worried Karen's already scarred for life." Jim clenched his jaw, remembering the gunshot, Karen's scream, the waiting, those interminable seconds before he was sure Karen hadn't been shot, the stench of blood and cordite, the sound of the body convulsing. Jim shuddered.

"You know, you don't have to come, right?" Tom said.

Jim nodded. "Nothing I haven't seen before."

"You okay without the dog?"

Jim nodded again. The elevator doors opened and he stepped off after the other two detectives. Marty had only seen him use the cane once, the day Hank had been missing. But Tom really hadn't seen it. Jim guessed it was different, seeing him with the cane versus seeing him and Hank. It was different for him, too, getting around. But maybe less so—he was blind either way. Maybe for the other detectives, seeing him with a cane—Jim hoped he was wrong—made him seem _more_ blind. "No problem," he said. "Down the street which way?" He walked with Tom and Marty down the sidewalk. As they neared the building Jim could feel the energy change even before he could hear the multitudes of people milling around, waiting for the jumper to plunge among them.

* * *

"There's two people up there," Fisk had said only a moment before. Tom and Marty had gotten clearance to go up in the building and had disappeared. "Where's the dog?" Fisk had just asked.

Then a collective hush, an intake of breath, a gasp—Jim knew immediately—or thought he knew.

Fisk was on the radio. "Pushed? Are you sure?"

Jim stood with the lieutenant and listened to the crackle and fuzz of the radio. Tom and a couple other officers had made it to the roof, guns drawn. Tom told them Marty'd stayed behind to talk to a witness, hysterically sobbing.

The psychologist who'd been called in was yelling at the officers to stay back.

"What the hell?" someone else on the roof asked.

"You pushed him?"

"Why?"

"Get down, we'll talk."

Then a dreamy voice, presumably the jumper, not an angry cop voice, said, "Being loved makes you feel like you can fly."

"Then why'd you push him off the building?" Tom yelled. "Why didn't you try to fly yourself?"

"Selway!" Fisk barked into the radio.

"I can't argue with that," the dreamy voice said appreciatively.

Another hush fell.

Jim turned away, his face averted, his hands clenched. He felt sick.

* * *

"Well, we got the perp in custody," Tom said. "Don't do us any good at this point."

Jim sank into his chair. He felt sick and dirty, just wanted to get away.

"Jim? You okay?"

Jim tried to smile over at Karen. "Karen, if I told you that's something I never wanted to see again, you'd think I was crazy."

"I would," Tom said. "You got my vote."

"It doesn't go away just 'cause I can't see it." Jim shook his head. "Tom, if you hadn't—"

"He would have jumped anyway. He'd just killed a man—he wasn't going to just come down."

It sounded so familiar. His reasoning at the bank. He had to shoot; the guy wasn't going into custody if he didn't.

"It was like he was waiting for someone to say that," Tom said slowly. "To argue with his reasoning."

Marty turned to Jim while Tom sank down in his chair. "So why'd you come?" Marty asked.

"It's my job," Jim said. But he really hadn't needed to be there. He didn't need it firsthand, not that time.

"So what'd you guys see?" he finally asked.

"Jim, it's over. The guy's dead," Tom said.

"And you're satisfied with that?"

"It's tough to pin a motive on a dead guy," Marty said. "According to the witness, we had us a would-be superhero. One that snapped. He ran through the building, yelling how he would save everyone. Grabbed a guy, took him up on the roof. And you saw the rest." Marty paused. "Er…" He sat down. "Never mind."

Jim swore to himself.

"Sorry, bad choice of words. You gotta stop being so touchy—"

"It's not that." Jim waved it off.

"There's no one to save this time, Jim," Tom said. "Let it go."

"Do we know anything? Who he was or where he came from? How he got past building security?"

Fisk walked up. "I promised we'd look into it. Other witnesses said it really didn't seem random."

"We'll go start a canvas," Tom said.

"Karen, you and Jim keep working on that other one."

When Fisk, Selway, and Russo had gone, Karen turned to Jim, who was absently rubbing his mouth. "Was it that bad?" she asked.

Jim sat up straighter and rubbed a hand over his face to compose himself. "Nah, not really." He reached out for his laptop.

A few minutes later the phone rang. "I got it," Jim said. "Detective Dunbar… Marty, yeah—Oh…" He swore and Karen slid over. The phone rang again and Karen lunged for it.

They both hung up at almost the same moment and turned to each other.

"That was Tom," Karen said.

"Marty."

"They were just cleaning up the body—Tom said the t-shirt the guy was wearing, it said, "Pipsqueak.""

Jim stared at her a second to process the information. "Marty ran into another witness, said the guy was running around, saying he'd save the world, "just like Uncle Josiah.""

"Well, damn," Karen said.

* * *

Jim followed Karen into the diner and stood next to her at the counter while she thumbed through a menu. He still didn't feel much like eating, but Karen had forced him to come with, keep his strength up so they could catch this guy, whoever he was.

"A dog?" a server asked across the counter.

"He's a guide dog," Jim said.

She didn't say anything else, so he guessed she dropped it. They ordered.

"About the other night…" Jim started awkwardly.

"I know," Karen said with a smile. "It didn't mean anything. And I was proud of you—you kept your hands in legal zones."

Jim gave her a little smile. "I didn't mean about that. I just meant… if something would have happened…"

"Jimmy! I can take care of myself."

"Yeah. But you gotta take care of me, too."

She scoffed. "I'm not your baby-sitter."

"And Russo was there," he said without looking at her.

She groaned. "Jimmy, maybe they give you a hard time about taking care of yourself, but I get it all the time, too."

"And you don't need it from me?"

"No, I don't, thanks."

Jim nodded.

"Go sit. I'll grab the plates when they're ready." She paused, probably looking around for an empty spot. "There's a booth by the window, next to the door. Straight back, just to the left."

Jim turned and ordered Hank to the table. They sat and he listened to the dog panting, then leaned down and scratched his ears. "Sorry, but you know you can't have any food here," he said quietly.

Karen sighed as she sat down facing the door. She pushed Jim's plate over to him.

"You doing okay?" he asked.

"Better than you," she shot back.

Jim smiled and carefully touched his club sandwich without picking it up. The toasted bread, coarse under his fingers, didn't even feel appetizing. He and Karen didn't have lunch together very often, he realized and looked back up at her. "Do you think we spend too much time together?" he asked.

"What?" She laughed.

"I was just wondering, being partners and all. We never have lunch together, you know?"

"I have a life, Dunbar."

He nodded. "How's Anne?"

"Same."

He took a bite of a small pickle slice.

"Still not hungry?" she asked.

"If we get one more DOA connected to this case, I'm gonna go crazy. And I keep waiting for someone to find Artez's body. Keep waiting for them to find DeLana."

"We'll figure it out."

"When?"

She was quiet a second. "I don't know."

Jim fingered a french fry. "You think DeLana actually knows anything useful?"

"I don't know that, either. I would have sworn up and down Samantha didn't."

"But if she didn't, why's she dead?"

"Exactly."

Jim pushed his plate away and leaned back. He pulled off his sunglasses and stared at the ceiling.

"Jim—"

"If you tell me one more time we'll figure it out… I mean, Robby's been looking into this over a year now."

She sighed. He heard his plate move toward him. "Eat."

"You half Italian, too?"

She laughed.

Jim smiled but didn't look back at her.

"I keep going back to, what was so great about Samantha?" Karen said. "They didn't want her family knowing where she was. She seems to be the one who got DeLana and Artez all mixed up in this. She had a son, whatever horrible thing that means."

"So Samantha's the catalyst?"

"She died, her cousin died…"

"Rico disappeared."

Karen sighed. "I'm gonna get some more coffee, you want some?"

Jim shook his head. He listened as she slid out of the booth. She turned back. "I just keep thinking—hey!" She pitched forward, her hand striking the table.

Jim felt something slosh out of her cup onto his shoulder, felt her turn as she dropped the cup on the table.

"Pay your bill and leave. Now," she said, her voice cold and low.

"Aww," a man said, then shut up.

"Do it again and I'll arrest you."

Jim listened to someone hastily leaving.

Karen turned back and brushed at the shoulder of his trench coat. Jim was already blotting with his napkin. She reached across the table and he heard her pulling napkins out of a dispenser, the rough paper rasping. "Sorry about that," she said.

Jim laughed. "It's okay, I'm scotch guarded." He grabbed her hands and pulled the napkins out. "Go get your coffee."

Karen grumbled something, but grabbed the cup and walked off.

Jim wadded up the napkins as she slid back into the booth.

"I told you I can take care of myself," she said.

"So you did," he said. "Did I doubt?"

"I dunno. Did you?"

"Maybe for a second. But that's it. Did I jump up to help you?"

Someone walked up to the table. "You okay, honey?" the server from before asked. She turned on Jim. "Why didn't you help her?" she accused.

"I'm fine, really," Karen said.

Jim laughed as soon as she was gone, finding it funny she'd asked about the guide dog, but still expected him to stand up for Karen. "Chivalry's dead, I guess. What'd he do?"

"Just grabbed me as he went past. Nothing much."

Jim looked down at the floor. "Not much of a guard dog, is he?"

"He looks hungry," Karen said, her voice softening.

Jim shook his head. "He's on a special diet, no human food."

"Really?"

"Yeah. All guide dogs have strict diets to keep them healthy."

"Poor Hank. I'd never be able to stick to it. I'd take one look in his big brown eyes and give him anything he wanted."

"Good thing I can't see, huh?"

"I told you, no!" a male voice said quietly, but full of anger.

Jim tensed. He was always listening for voices, afraid he'd miss someone he knew or miss hearing someone come up and start talking to him until the conversation was half over.

"What?" Karen asked.

"I told you, no!" 

Jim listened, but the man didn't say anything else. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the precinct. "Marty, it's Jim. Can you describe to Karen _that_ guy?"

"Which guy?"

Jim didn't want to call attention to them if it was who he thought. He was quiet a second, thinking of an unobtrusive thing to call him.

"You mean, the guy I thought might try to follow you to DeLana's?"

"Yeah, that one."

"Our favorite cop friend?"

"Hold on." He reached across the table carefully, not sure what would be in the center between him and Karen. He was learning to hate decorative centerpieces and candles.

"Yeah?" she said into the phone, then listened. "Okay… Jim, what's—"

"Behind you, sort of to the right? My left, just a little," he said really quietly.

There was another pause. He knew Karen would be discreet when she looked, so he just stared nonchalantly out the window.

"Yeah. Looks like it."

Jim held his hand out for the phone. "You busy?" he asked Marty.

"I'm always too busy to ID a suspect, Jim. You think it's him?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Where are you?"

"Bertrice's Diner."

"Five minutes, tops."

Jim flipped the phone closed.

"What?" Karen asked. "Marty didn't—"

"Let's make small talk."

"Okay…" She laughed. "You want me to watch?" she asked carefully.

"Yeah."

"Boy, this is some weather, huh?"

"How 'bout them Knicks?"

"What are you going to be for Halloween?"

Jim laughed, finally breaking the tension he'd been feeling. He could trust Karen to keep an eye on the guy. He hoped it really was Mulhaney. But if it was, that meant Marty'd been right; they were being followed. "I haven't thought about it." Jim pushed thoughts of the case to the back of his mind and tried to relax. He didn't want to give anything away to Mulhaney by looking too anxious. And he didn't want to think of the repercussions of being followed.

"You're not going to any parties? Not going trick or treating?"

Jim shrugged. "Really hadn't thought about it."

"You really are a workaholic, aren't you?"

"I happen to like my job."

"You need to let loose more often. It was nice seeing a different side of you the other night."

Jim shook his head, embarrassment creeping back up. He finally smiled. "You can bet I won't be drinking that much at the holiday party this year. Can you imagine me going up to Fisk and telling him what I told Marty?"

Karen laughed, but said, "What did you tell Marty?"

"He didn't tell you?"

"No."

"I'm surprised." It put a new perspective on Marty. He always liked to know what was going on with everyone else, but it was nice to know he could keep things to himself. "So, Christmas? You guys have a big party here?"

"Yeah."

Jim smiled. He'd always liked the holiday parties before at his old precinct. Now, it was nice to feel that excited lurch in the pit of his stomach, looking forward to Christmas again.

"We need to figure out what you should wear for Halloween."

"Why the obsession over Halloween?"

"I'm sort of going to a party with this guy."

Jim blinked and leaned closer. "Who? What's he like?"

"Jim," she reprimanded.

"You brought it up."

"It's a, uh, blind date."

Jim laughed. "My favorite kind."

"I hate blind dates. And to a costume party? Do you know how embarrassing that's going to be?"

"So if it doesn't work out, you go hang out with your friends. Really, I always did like blind dates. No commitment."

"You were commitment phobic?"

"Isn't every guy?" he joked. Then he shook his head. "Not phobic—I just didn't want to settle down."

"How'd Christie get you to do it?"

He shrugged. "No idea. Fate, I guess. I took one look at her and…" He shook his head.

"You and Christie should come to the party."

"So that's why you wanted to dress me up?"

"Yeah…"

"Thanks, but I'm not much for the wild free-for-all anymore."

"Okay." She paused. "Getting old?"

"Karen…"

"Can't convince you?"

"A year ago, I would have come."

The bells over the door jangled and Jim suddenly felt a body sliding into the booth next to him. He slid toward the window to make room for Marty. Someone slid in next to Karen.

"Hi, Tom, didn't know you were coming," Jim said.

"I wouldn't miss a party," Tom said.

"You want to go to a Halloween party?"

"What?"

Jim shook his head. "Behind Karen, to my left."

"I see him," Marty said.

"Is it him?"

"Yup."

"I have good ears," Jim joked.

Marty clapped his shoulder and slid out of the booth. "We'll try not to make a scene. You guys got back-up?"

Jim nodded. He slid to the edge of the bench, ready to jump, grabbed Hank's leash, just in case they needed to run. He listened to Tom and Marty quietly talk to Mulhaney, but couldn't hear exactly what they were saying.

"He laughed and pulled his badge," Karen whispered.

"Yeah, I got one, too," Marty said.

Jim smiled to himself at the tone in Marty's voice.

"They're moving," Karen said a minute later. He stood. She moved out of the booth and pressed against his arm. Jim grabbed Hank's harness and moved with her when the bells over the door jangled.

Jim called Rob Mulhaney as soon as they got back to the squad, then he crammed into the observation room with Fisk and Karen.

"Robby on his way?"

Jim nodded and crossed his arms, waiting for the interview to begin.

"What's this about?"

"We just want to have a conversation," Marty said.

"Let me see your badge again," Tom said.

"We can at least book him for impersonating an officer," Fisk said.

"You ever meet Brian?" Jim asked him.

"A couple times, years ago," Fisk replied. "And this is definitely not him."

"What's your name?" Marty asked.

"Brian Mulhaney."

"Yeah. Right."

"You want to call my supervisor?"

"No."

"You want my social security number?"

"No."

"Check my record!"

"No. We know you're not a cop."

"How would I have gotten a badge? How would I have gotten my job? I've been working four years—"

"Or just a couple days," Tom said.

"Believe me," Marty said, "when we figure out exactly what you've done, you're going to be in a lot more trouble."

"Are you charging me with something? You said you just wanted to talk."

"That'll teach you never to trust a cop," Marty said. "Are you going to make me ask you again?"

There was silence.

"What are the charges?" Mulhaney finally asked.

"Murder. Identity theft. Impersonating a police officer."

"Murder?"

"You better believe it," Tom said.

"I don't. Who do you think I killed?"

"Brian Mulhaney, for starters."

"Suicide?" The man laughed. "This is ridiculous." His tone of voice changed, lost the amused quality. "What are you doing?"

"Fingerprints," Tom said. "You don't mind, do you?"

There was a knock on the door. Jim moved to open it, being closest.

"Jimmy," Rob Mulhaney said solemnly.

"Come on in." Jim shut the door after him.

"You ever see this kid before?" Fisk asked.

"…No."

"We got the badge and we're going to run the prints."

"He says he's Brian?"

"Yeah," Jim said quietly. Rob's hand clenched his shoulder. Jim turned and put a hand on his other arm. "You okay?" The grip tightened.

"If he…" Rob started, then trailed off.

* * *

Karen and Jim took over interviewing "Brian" so Marty and Tom could have a break. He hadn't given anything up in over two hours. They'd sent the prints out to be matched without much hope.

Jim shut the door. "Ah, Detective Dunbar!" Brian said happily. "You remember me, right?"

Jim laughed and shook his head. "Oh, yeah, I remember you. I also remember meeting Brian Mulhaney back in training, so you can drop the charade."

"Is that what this is about? Because I didn't remember you?" Brian asked, sounding hurt. "Been a while, huh?"

"Too bad I know your family personally, or it might have worked." Jim pulled out a chair, but didn't sit. He tried to test the silence, hoping Brian was sweating it out.

"You got my dad in here?" Brian asked quietly. "'Cause you should know, we had a huge falling out a couple years ago and he disowned me. He wouldn't acknowledge—"

"Not even for an investigation? He'd refuse to ID you?"

"Yeah!"

"You want me to ask him?"

"Detective…" Brian took a deep breath. "It was a huge deal, and Dad's an unforgiving sort of guy. You should know that."

"And you never should have picked the name of a real ex-cop to impersonate. There's not a single cop that ever met Brian Mulhaney who recognizes you as him. Why is that?"

"People change. I got a little heavier, that's all."

"And the voice?"

"Yeah, you're a voice guy, right? Maybe you forgot."

"You're not going to pretend you have a cold or something?" Jim finally sat down.

"Why would I pretend?"

There was a knock on the door. Jim listened as Karen answered it. He heard a paper being passed and cocked his head to the side without turning toward her.

"Reg Schmidt?" Karen asked. "Well, Reggie, how do you plead?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Your fingerprints."

"That's ridiculous; I don't have a record."

Jim leaned forward. "Actually, "Brian," you do. Drunken and disorderly? Remember? First year of college after a frat party. You were always kinda proud of that one. Daddy's a cop, and you had a record."

"Oh, that."

Karen set the file down by Jim's hand. "MIP," she said. "But you didn't have any alcohol in your blood, so the case got dropped."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"How do you forget your first mug shot? I'd've thought no one would be able to forget that day."

There was a moment of silence. Jim wondered what else was on the paper Karen had gotten. Probably nothing much, if the case had been dropped.

"So you're Brian's age, nearly the same build, a little stockier, same color hair."

"Yeah… I'd look like myself, wouldn't I?"

"You want us to do a DNA test?"

More silence.

"Give your statement," Jim said.

"Where the hell are you guys coming up with all this?" the kid asked.

"You want us to call you a lawyer?"

"No."

"Well?"

"Come on, we're all cops here. There's no need for a lawyer. Just tell me what's going on." But his voice was starting to sound uncomfortable.

* * *

Jim followed Karen slowly back to the observation room. He'd made sure to grab the paper telling them the ID off the prints. He leaned against the mirror and rubbed a hand over his face, taking off his glasses and sighing. "Anything else on here?" he asked, holding up the paper.

"Nothing useful," Karen said and took the paper. He heard her set it down somewhere.

"Hey, Rob?"

"Yeah, Jimmy."

"You want a shot at this guy?" There was silence and Jim could feel tension mounting in the room. "Sorry, shouldn't have asked," he said.

"I'd love a shot at this guy… but not today." Rob was struggling to keep his voice even.

Jim nodded, understanding. "Well, he's not going anywhere."

"I ran him while you guys were in there," Fisk said.

Jim perked up. "And?"

"Not a lot."

"But? Come on, boss, you're as bad as Tom."

"I'm going to bring in Brian's high school yearbook," Rob said. "See what he says about that. All Brian's friends, all the stuff he did back then."

"And I ordered Reggie Schmidt's," Fisk added. "This kid's never held a job, so we're going back a little further. We're gonna try to find out who he hung out with. We'll get someone to ID him."

"No college?"

"None."

"So… _Brian_," Marty said snidely, back in the interview room. "Guess what we got?"

"What does he got?" Karen asked.

"What?" Jim asked.

"Paper," she told him.

"Search warrant," Fisk said.

"You don't recognize this? I'd've thought, you being a cop and all, you'd know what this looked like."

"I don't have my contacts in," the kid said. "And obviously, you don't need 20/20 vision uncorrected to be a cop, so don't go trying to tell me that."

Jim felt Karen elbow him and he smiled at her.

"This is a search warrant for your apartment. So tell us, _Brian_, where do you live?"

Silence. Jim touched Karen's arm. He heard her turn toward him.

"Oh, sorry. He's definitely sweating," Karen said. "Staring at the table. Kinda pale."

More silence. Jim let go of Karen's arm.

* * *

"I'd love to search this guy's apartment," Marty said later. Reg Schmidt had never admitted anything, but also couldn't give them a permanent address. No amount of searching had provided the detectives with one, either.

Jim rubbed his mouth. "Yeah, me, too." He raised his head when he heard footsteps approaching.

"The DOA from the roof, he had this in his pocket," Fisk said.

Jim heard Fisk toss down a plastic evidence bag with something in it. He waited.

"Aspirin?" Marty asked.

"That's what ME thought at first. There's one pill in there, but it's not aspirin."

"What is it?" Jim asked.

"It's the untraceable poison that dissolves instantly in the human body and kills them, stopping the heart and coagulating the blood just enough that, even if they're shot—"

"They won't bleed much," Tom said.

"Exactly."

"Geez," Karen said.

Marty let out a whistle.

"So where'd the DOA get it?" Jim asked.

"You want to ask him?" Marty asked.

Jim smiled.

* * *

"Did you talk to my daughter?"

Jim stopped in the hallway and turned back toward the voice.

"Are you really even blind, detective? You're not being led around today."

"I am blind."

"So the other day, that was what? An excuse to talk about me behind my back?"

Jim walked toward her voice down the hall, stopping a couple feet short. "Mrs. Campbell…"

"Have you talked to my daughter?" she reiterated.

"No," he said.

"No?"

"The girl we were talking to—"

"She said I wasn't her mother?"

"She said her name wasn't Laine Campbell. But if we do come across your daughter, we have your number." Jim turned to leave.

"Detective! I know that's my daughter."

"How?" He didn't turn back.

"Someone told me."

"And you believe them?"

"I believe them more than I believe you."

Jim cocked his head to the side. He crooked a finger over his shoulder. "Come on," he said and headed for an interview room. "Karen?" he asked as he passed their desks.

"Not here. She already went home," Tom said. "You want me to join you?"

"Yeah." He pushed open the door to the interview room and held it for Mrs. Campbell. "This is Detective Selway," he said when Tom reached them. He shut the door. "Have a seat." A chair scraped back. "Tell us, who told you we know where your daughter is?"

"I got a phone call…"

Jim nodded and moved into the room, away from the windows, where he'd heard Tom go.

"And you knew who was on the phone?"

"No."

"And you believe them because…?"

"They told me some things."

Jim pulled out a chair and dropped into it. "Like what?"

"Things only my Laina would know about."

Jim cocked his head to the side. "Mrs. Campbell, do you value your daughter's life?"

"Of course I do!"

"So why do you keep insisting we tell you where she is? If this girl is your daughter, her life is in danger, and the more you press the issue, the more dangerous it gets."

"What do you mean, she's in danger?"

Jim sighed.

"Everyone she was with, they're either dead or missing," Tom said. "You want that to happen to your daughter?"

"Why? Why is she in danger?"

"We don't know yet," Jim said. "Do you?"

"No."

"So you can't tell us anything about who called you and what they told you and why you're trying to find your daughter?" Tom asked.

"This guy called. He said Laina had been arrested. I said, what for, he said he didn't know exactly but I should come down here and you'd let me talk to her."

"Why would this guy call you up? Just out of the blue like that?" Tom asked.

"He said he was a friend of hers and thought I should know. Things hadn't been that great between me and Laina for a while. If he was a friend of hers, he'd know that."

"You've had no contact with her lately?" Jim asked.

"She would call sometimes, and send pictures of her daughter."

"She has three daughters now," Jim said and listened to her breathe as she took in the new information. He turned to Tom and said, "Do we have a picture of Rico Artez?"

"His mug shot from when we booked him."

"Do we still have a hard copy of that, though? After they wiped his file?"

"Who is…?" Mrs. Campbell asked.

"Rico Artez," Jim said. "He was a friend of this girl. They said they were brother and sister. I'm wondering if maybe they were old friends, maybe you'd know something?"

Tom described Rico to her.

"No," she said. "I don't know."

Jim nodded. "This girl we know, she has three kids, and a brother, and you still think it's your daughter?"

Mrs. Campbell sniffed, opened a purse of some sort, rifled around. Jim heard the light sound of tissues rasping out of a pack, heard her wiping at her face. "They told me all about Tamika, what she's been doing lately. She hasn't been to school. She's such a smart girl, she needs to go to school! And I know Laina's had problems lately, but I thought maybe now it's been long enough, she'll let me help.

"They told me all the different places Laina and Tamika have been staying the past couple years, Laina's old job—"

"Where'd she work?" Tom interrupted.

"She was secretary at some law firm or a brokerage or something like that. She had a couple different jobs. But she was good at her job, got to work for some high-profile guys, booking their lunches and meeting all sorts of people. Someone had just offered her a better job when… She said she quit, had to be there for Tamika. She said she couldn't say anything too detailed."

"And then she moved out of her apartment?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"She said it was going to be cheaper to stay with friends. They could split rent."

"How was she going to pay rent if she didn't have a job?"

"I asked, believe me I asked. She didn't say. Like I said, we didn't talk much, especially after she moved out of her place. That was a few years ago."

"And now?" Jim prompted.

"She's my daughter, detective. They said she was arrested, I was worried. I thought, even if she did something bad, someone would have to take care of Tamika. I could be there for her, like I wasn't there before."

"We don't know who called you," Jim said. "But please, as far as you're concerned, we don't even know where your daughter is. It's not her."

"But—"

"We don't know what she knows, or what happened, but… We're doing everything we can to keep her safe."

She sniffled.

"And we're asking you, if anyone asks, to tell them that. And if they contact you again," Jim paused and pulled out one of his business cards, "call us immediately with any information."

"And you'll call me?"

"We will." Jim stood up and held his hand out to her. "We'll be in touch." He held the door open for her, then let it swing shut. He turned to Tom with a sigh. "Well," he said.

"DeLana really wouldn't tell us anything about her family," Tom said.

"At least she's gone for now. The fewer people asking questions, the better."

"You think we can trust her to keep quiet? If someone asks where her daughter is and tells her some horror story, you think she's going to come running back?"

Jim shook his head. "Your guess is as good as mine." He opened the door and stepped out.

Jim froze when a hand touched his chest on the way out of the interview room. He stepped back and heard Tom sidestep him.

"Boss?" Tom asked.

Jim had never heard Fisk so quiet. Often, when no one was around, he could tell who was there, but not this time.

"We got us another DOA," Fisk said quietly. "Reg Schmidt, down in the Tombs."

Tom swore. Jim closed his eyes and prayed it wasn't happening, then shook his head.

"They're doing an autopsy now," Fisk said. "But what d'you want to bet they didn't search him well enough before they put him down there?"

"Probably they just thought it was a tiny, harmless aspirin?" Tom said.

Jim turned and walked abruptly to his desk, nearly stamping his feet in frustration. He threw back his desk chair and fell into it.

"Nothing we can do tonight, Jim," Fisk said. "Go on home."

* * *

"Jimmy, are you okay?"

He looked up, having just walked in the door a moment before. He dropped his keys on the table, hadn't even called out yet. So why'd Christie sound so concerned?

"You've been standing there for five minutes," she said.

"Have I?" He scrunched his face a little. "Sorry."

He heard her dress swish over and remembered their date suddenly.

"I better change."

Her hand caught his arm and she pulled him into an embrace.

"What's this for?" He felt awkward, still in his coat with his bag across his shoulder, but he put his arms around her.

She tilted his head down with a hand on his cheek as she pulled back a few inches. "Let's go out tomorrow."

He raised a hand to her face, confused. "You have other plans?"

"No. You look miserable…"

He shook his head. "Long day. I'm sure as soon as we get out the door—"

"You'll be thinking about it all night. I want us _both_ to have fun."

He sighed. "I promised."

"So we'll make a long day of it tomorrow. No big deal."

"Christie—"

"Remember our deal? We're not going to fight. We're just going to be here for each other."

Jim broke away and shrugged out of his coat. "I wasn't about to yell at you." He sighed. He'd forgotten to pick up flowers.

"I know."

Family or career. That conversation haunted Jim's memory. He wanted to ask Galloway if that was a legitimate way to have a relationship, but he'd have to wait for his next appointment.

"Do you have anything planned tomorrow?" she asked.

"No."

"So let's relax tonight. You look like you need to unwind."

He nodded without realizing he was doing it.

"And tomorrow, since neither one of us had anything to do… unless you were planning to head down to the squad?"

He shook his head. "I should take a day off and let it fester."

"That bad, huh?"

Jim smiled a little. "I'm going to change. You sure you don't mind putting off our date?"

"It was my idea, wasn't it? And it's my birthday." She trailed a hand across his chest as she crossed to the kitchen. "I'll call the restaurant, see if we can reschedule."

Jim shut the door to their bedroom and sat on the bed. Hank touched his knee with his nose. Jim looked down. "Hey, didn't know you followed me," he said. Hank sat at his feet. Jim leaned back on the bed, arms outstretched, and groaned.

He was relieved Christie was letting him stay home. He felt sore and tense and frustrated. He really wouldn't have been able to have any fun. He'd almost been looking forward to the date, almost. A quiet dinner, then maybe a walk in the park. He hadn't planned much, figured they could just play it by ear.

Now he had all weekend, two days off the case. It didn't feel right, taking time when he knew something else could go wrong at any moment.

He wondered how Rob was doing. He'd been quiet when he left, but Jim knew, Rob having more at stake in the case, having someone impersonating his dead son, Jim knew if he was frustrated, that was nothing compared to what Rob must be feeling. Probably lying at home right then with his wife trying to comfort him, or maybe he was throwing things around the house. Jim smiled, thinking of a wife trying to offer comfort. He sat up, stripped off his work shirt and quickly changed into more casual clothes.

"Welcome back," Christie said when he opened the door.

Hank followed him.

"You hungry?" she asked.

Jim shook his head. He crossed to the couch. "Join me?" he asked hopefully. Hank settled at his feet.

"Aren't you going to feed the dog?" she asked as she leaned over the couch behind him.

Slowly he nodded. "Yeah. Right. Sorry." He went back to the kitchen.

"I'm going to throw something in the oven," she said. "You'll want to eat later." She opened the refrigerator.

Jim thought about skipping lunch and it still didn't make him hungry. Everything was just so messed up, how could he think of food? "You want help?" he asked.

"Sure." He listened as she dropped a few things on the counter by the stove and pulled out a pan. "You want to put together a salad?"

Jim washed the dog food off his hands and nodded, then realized he didn't know if Christie was facing him or not. "Yeah," he said. He pulled lettuce and vegetables out of the fridge, glad for something to do as he spread out by the sink, washing, cutting, tossing. He dropped a few cherry tomatoes into the bowl, wondering what DeLana was eating right then, if she and the kids felt safe. He knew he couldn't go check on her, but maybe he could give Tamika a call, see what she knew about her grandmother, see if Tamika could talk to her mom about helping them. It had to be getting old, being in police custody, even if it was for safety, even if it was better than what they'd had previously.

"Jim?" Christie asked.

He turned his head, one hand on either side of the large bowl. "Yeah?"

"You're spacing out again."

"Sorry." He started cleaning up, pulled out the bottle of homemade salad dressing Christie liked to make.

"I thought you weren't hungry," she said.

"I'm not."

"Then just put the salad in the fridge. We'll eat it right before dinner's ready."

Jim put everything back in the fridge. He hadn't been thinking, just been on auto-pilot. He listened as Christie slid something into the oven and set the timer. He slid up onto one of the stools at the counter, his chin resting on his fists as he imagined what she was doing based on what he could hear. Her at the sink facing him, washing up, wiping down the counter, her head down, but probably glancing up at him occasionally, then turning to wipe down the area by the stove, checking the oven to make sure everything was okay, putting things back in the refrigerator, turning her back to pull a wine glass out of the cupboard—make that two wine glasses—then pulling out a bottle. He heard her set it on the counter in front of him, then she opened a drawer and set something next to it, something small. He reached out and grabbed the bottle and the corkscrew, glad she didn't have to give running commentary anymore. She used to, every little thing: here's the wine, it's this kind, here's the opener, it's right by the bottle, will you open it? But now the silence was comfortable enough and he could follow her movements, know what was going on around him. He opened the wine and slid the corkscrew back across the counter, listening as she put it away. The two glasses she'd set behind the bottle, so he grabbed them and poured, holding one out over the sink until she took it.

"Mm," she said, taking a sip.

He pictured her smiling over at him and smiled back. He left his own wine untouched, just played his fingers over the bottom of the glass. "How was work?" he finally asked.

"Not bad. We have an article we're working on, this lady who designed dresses out of her basement."

He grimaced. "Out of shower curtains again?" That had been one of the first articles Christie had ever told him about, back when they were still dating. She didn't have as much seniority as she did now, so she often got stuck with articles, small blurbs, really, that had very little to do with the fashion industry at large. It had been a piece about eccentric clothing or something, a retrospective of all the weird and bizarre things people had tried to wear over the years.

"No," she said, lightly complaining. "That was one time, not everything is like that."

He smiled. "I know."

"That's just your favorite."

He shrugged.

"Then I'll always give you a hard time about that case where the guy was stealing teddy bears and giving them to children at the shelters. And the one where you followed that guy and got stuck in the fun-house because they locked the main door and you couldn't find the emergency exit. And how about the time you fell in that play pit, the one with the balls, and all the kids were laughing at you."

Jim laughed. "Anymore good memories you want to dredge up?"

"Give me a minute, I'm sure I'll remember more."

"You were going to tell me about the new article you're working on."

"Yeah…" She sounded like she was smiling as she moved over and sat on the stool next to him. He caught one of her legs between his and wouldn't let go. He took a sip of wine. "Basically, she's been designing dresses using an old sewing machine. She's ninety years old now, but the look just caught on with a bunch of college students. Her granddaughter and her friends, then their friends. Now her granddaughter is trying to market the dresses to bigger designers." She reached out, caressing his hand as it sat on the counter. He looked down at it. "What about your day?"

He shook his head.

"Jimmy… You used to like to work the cases out, telling me little things—"

"I left out a lot of the nitty-gritty details, you know."

"That's okay. Why don't you tell me? You can censor it, if you want."

Jim took a long drink and grabbed her hand as it made another pass over the back of his. He told her how Rob had been there today to confirm that his dead son wasn't the guy in the interview room, how the guy had later been found dead. "Do you remember Rob?"

She was quiet a second. "Oh, uh, no, I don't think so," she said.

The way she said it, it sounded like she may have been shaking her head during the silence. Jim looked over at her, wishing he could read body language now, even the little things, like the shaking of a head. He kept hold of her hand and concentrated on that as he told her other small details about DeLana and the lady who might be her mom, about Artez the maybe brother disappearing, about Samantha being pregnant. He felt her muscles tense when he mentioned the details about the baby.

"Why is having a boy so bad?"

"We don't know." Jim shook his head and squeezed her hand.

"But it's a baby!"

"This whole case, everything's messed up." He bent his head so she wouldn't be able to see his face as well. He hadn't been planning to tell her about the guy from the roof that day, but he found himself doing it anyway. She tensed again, her hand growing hot.

He listed everything that had gone wrong, all the people who were no longer able to offer information on the case. "I'm just worried something's going to happen. We have one girl left, and four children. What if something happens to her? What'll happen to the kids?"

"But you won't let anything happen to her, she's safe."

He turned away. "I thought that about her brother, too. We had him _in the station_. And he's gone."

She didn't offer him any hope, not even like Karen had done, saying of course they'd figure it out. For some reason he found that comforting, just holding her hand and feeling her pulse beat.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen—Repose**

Jim kept hold of Christie's arm. Part of his penance was to leave Hank behind. He'd be totally reliant on her all evening, but it was her birthday, and if she wanted the responsibility, he wouldn't argue. He'd found himself avoiding a lot of arguments recently, ever since the big blow-out with Christie. Something petty like how he was going to get around all evening, it didn't seem worth arguing about.

"Are you sure you should have left Hank behind?" Christie asked.

The streets were crowded and Jim ducked his head to hear her. "Yeah. It's your night, remember?"

"I just don't want you to resent me for it—"

"I wouldn't." It felt a little odd without Hank, but he let Karen guide him enough at work that it really didn't matter much. It was just that he and Christie got out so rarely anymore, just the two of them, he'd thought it would mean a lot to her.

"And I know how important it is for you to be independent."

"Relying on Hank isn't exactly independent…" Jim said slowly. "I don't like to rely on him, either, you know. It's just a little easier on my conscience to impose on his goodwill than on anyone else's."

Christie was quiet and Jim tried to relax as she led him into the restaurant. He immediately heard the fountain, water rushing over the rocks. He remembered small marble figurines that had been stuck in the nooks and crannies, like a village in the mountains. Christie stopped a moment and turned toward the water.

"Two?" a female voice asked.

Jim looked up. No one else said anything and he felt Christie turning, so he nodded. "Reservations for Dunbar."

There was a pause, then she said, "It'll be a few minutes. Why don't you have a seat?"

Jim followed Christie to some chairs next to the fountain. He felt a seat in front of his knees and let go of her arm, turned, sat. He listened to the water falling and relaxed. It was a nice sound. He resituated on the chair, not so stiff, and his left knee bumped something. He reached down and felt the low wall around the fountain pool. He pushed his hand further, to the edge of the wall, then down to the water, letting the coolness play through his fingers, feeling tiny drops spray him from the rocks.

"What are you doing?" Christie asked. She sounded amused, so he left his hand there in the water.

"I'm playing in the fountain," he said.

She laughed.

A moment later he felt her pressing something onto the back of his right hand. He turned his hand and she pressed a small object into his palm. He closed his hand, feeling a small coin with ridges, a quarter.

"Make a wish," she said.

He pulled his hand out of the water, wiped it dry on his pants, turned the coin over and over in his hands, thinking. He put a hand on her arm and leaned over carefully, kissing her on the cheek. Then he turned back and tossed the coin lightly. He heard it plop a few feet away.

"What'd you wish for?" she asked.

"It's a secret." He put his hand on her leg and squeezed.

"Dunbar?" the hostess asked.

Jim stood up, taking Christie's arm. They followed the hostess and Jim stayed close to Christie, unsure how close the tables were to each other. Christie didn't seem at all tense, maneuvering around the restaurant, he had to give her credit for that. She stopped and put his hand on the back of a chair. He caught her arm before she could get away and pulled the chair out for her, waiting until she sat, then helping scoot her in. He reached out for the table, using that as a guide. It was a small table, square, and the next chair was directly across the table. He listened as the hostess set down two menus.

"Do you have a menu in Braille?" Christie asked.

"Uh, no," the hostess said. "Sorry."

"That's okay," Jim said, pulling out his chair, then shrugging off his coat and setting it across the back. He sat.

The hostess moved away, leaving them.

"I didn't even think to ask," Jim said. He gingerly touched the table, running his hands across the menu, moving it down to his lap so he could explore the rest of his space.

"We'll have to go out to dinner more often," she said. "We'll find a few places—"

"And I'll have to practice, huh?"

"You'll have to do it eventually."

Jim felt heat coming from a candle in the center of the table and kept his hands back. "I've been busy," he said. His hands found a glass thing that turned out to be a vase full of silk flowers. He moved it to the side of the table.

"I'll move the candle there, too," Christie said.

He nodded. His hand knocked something over and he froze.

"Wine menu," she said.

He heard her move that, also.

"I won't prop it up like they had it."

"Good." He felt the cloth napkin and the metal ring around it that enclosed the silverware. "What's on the menu?"

"Do you want an appetizer?"

He shook his head. "Steak, I think." He listened to her turn a couple pages. "Long menu?"

"A bit. There's a whole steak section." She read through different kinds of steak.

"Hello, my name's Angie, I'll be your waitress," a chipper voice said. She sounded about seventeen. "Let me tell you our specials." She rattled them off.

Christie ordered them each a glass of wine.

The waitress ran off and Christie resumed reading the menu to him with descriptions of the dinners and what they came with. The waitress came back and took Christie's order first, then Jim's. She brought back the bottle of wine and poured them each a drink, then hurried off again. She'd taken their menus and Jim found himself playing with the napkin instead of the menu, just for something to keep his hands occupied. The silence stretched a moment.

Jim looked up finally. "We did the small talk thing yesterday, huh?" he asked, afraid they'd already discussed everything they could think of.

"We don't get out very often, Jim. It'll get easier," she said.

He kept his gaze straight across the table. No more just sitting around the apartment, that's what Christie had wanted, something normal. This was normal, dinner in a restaurant with his wife. He listened to other diners around him for a moment before deciding he'd rather just imagine they were alone. He tuned everyone else out, imagined the place dim with soft candlelight. Christie, sitting across from him—but she was in shadow, he couldn't quite picture her, not her features, not the look on her face. He sighed and looked down.

"It'll get easier, huh?" he asked. He nodded. "Yeah…"

He heard her move something and felt her hand on his, squeezing over the back of his hand.

"Yeah."

He let his head drop to the side a little as he looked over at her. "It's been getting easier at work, you know. All the stuff with Marty and the other detectives. Everything's working out."

"You've always been good at your job."

He nodded. "I got chewed out about going out the other night…"

"I thought you had fun."

"I did. We sort of didn't tell the boss before we went out, though."

"And you're the only one he yelled at?"

"He sort of yelled at us all, but I'm the only one he pulled aside."

She made a little noise that he knew meant she thought it was unfair.

He shrugged it off. "It's okay."

"You're going to just let it stew?"

"No, we talked it out. It's okay."

"Good."

"Detective?" a young female voice asked. "Detective Dunbar?"

Jim looked up.

"I just wanted to thank you—Kim. Kim Chenowith—"

Jim smiled at her. "Yeah. I'm not going to forget you anytime soon," he said. "How'd the ash spreading go?"

"I still have my job," she said brightly.

"Good, good."

"And I just wanted to thank you. I had a second urn full of incinerator ashes like you suggested. For back-up, just in case. I was definitely not going to let anything happen after all that. But again, thank you."

"No problem."

"Have a good night."

Jim waved a hand and listened to her quickly walk away. He turned back to Christie and picked up his wine glass.

"Well?"

Jim felt his face turn a little red. "My, uh, first case when I got back. Didn't quite go a planned."

"But you said—"

Jim waved her off. "After fighting you for months about going back to work, I wasn't about to tell you what really happened that day."

"Are you going to tell me now?" Christie asked after a pause.

Jim looked over at her and cocked his head to the side. "If you promise to laugh." He wouldn't go into all the implications, how Karen had been pulled off the homicide, how Fisk kept giving them assignments a rookie would have been offended by, whatever his reasoning had been. He just hoped Christie didn't read too much into his story and figure it out herself.

* * *

It was rare to see Jimmy embarrassed. Christie'd seen it more since the shooting, but usually it was tinged with anger and frustration he could barely control. But there in the restaurant it was pure and sweet. She smiled with him as he explained about going out for a stolen car and needing to find some priceless dog ashes to save the young woman who'd just left. Christie laughed and held his hand while he talked. He seemed to like having that contact with her now that he couldn't see. He'd never admitted it, but she could tell just by the difference in the way he talked to her when they were touching.

These were the kinds of crimes she actually preferred to think about Jimmy solving, saving people from insignificant little things that were barely life-altering. It made her feel good, made her think of him as heroic. He'd solved so many murders, but really, who benefited from that? Someone got punished, but the crime was so final. She couldn't imagine how hopeless she'd feel all the time if it was her, doing all that work for someone who couldn't be saved.

But it seemed to be the opposite that was driving Jimmy crazy with the new case. He was so sure someone else was going to die, someone he'd met personally, yet he felt powerless to stop it.

Jimmy turned his head and she found herself following his gaze. There was a group of women over there, well-dressed and laughing. Immediately she felt sick before she remembered he couldn't see them, before she glanced back and saw his eyes were actually focused over the heads of the women.

"You're quiet," he said.

She realized suddenly he'd turned his head to listen for her and she felt her face turning red, but the sick feeling didn't go away. She would never be satisfied, no matter how many times they fought it out. That was why she'd never made an appointment with the couples' therapist, knowing that no matter what, she'd lost that blind trust she'd had before. Even if he couldn't see, that didn't mean he'd never do it again. Even though she only knew of the one woman, that didn't mean there'd only been one. It wasn't likely he'd admit to anything she wasn't aware of, dig himself in deeper.

She threw her napkin on the table and stood up, pulling her hand away before he'd know anything was wrong. "I'll be right back," she said.

"Christie?" Jim was pulling his hand back across the table. He'd lost track of her when she moved; he was looking a couple feet to her right, then turning his head, searching for her. He looked worried.

"Restroom," she said, already moving away. She needed a breath of fresh air. She couldn't get mad; she'd promised.

* * *

Jim just sat there, one hand to either side of his plate. The waitress had come, startling him. He hadn't heard her walk up carrying a tray with their dinners on it. She'd apologized and reached in front of him, probably moving his napkin and silverware. He felt the warmth of the plate next to his hand, followed her movements as she set down Christie's plate. He gestured at his wine glass and asked for a refill.

"Sure," she'd said, sounding nervous.

Jim could only imagine maybe she hadn't realized he was blind. He heard her rush off and sat there until she brought back the wine.

"Is everything all right?" she'd asked, maybe wondering where Christie was, or why he hadn't touched his food.

"Yeah."

He heard her set down the wine glass on the table cloth, then she rushed off again. He felt around slowly. With the tablecloth and the plate in the way, the sound had been muffled, leaving him unsure of the whereabouts of the glass. He wrapped his hand around it and took a long drink, wondering himself where Christie was.

He sat there. He'd finished telling her the story, the censored version, of his first day back on the job. It had been hard to get out at first, all the little implications of that first day back, trying to prove to everyone he could do the job. Trying to keep everyone straight, all these new people he'd never seen, match a voice with a desk, add tidbits to their personality, not really feeling that he knew any of them. Until he'd been in the car with Karen, asking her if he'd done something wrong, trying to read the silence between them. He'd gotten a feel for her then, everything from her resenting him interrupting her job, feeling belittled having to drive him around, to the whole thing with her being Anne's friend. That had said a lot, the fact that she'd actually cornered him about Anne. He hadn't blown her off exactly, but he hadn't been about to tell her everything that had happened in his marriage and with her friend, all he could tell her was it had been a mistake. She'd seemed to accept that, something neither Christie nor Anne had ever been able to do.

That first day back, he hadn't told her how Fisk had practically ordered him to stay back in the squad. How he'd sat there, in the office, listening to Fisk move around. The slammed drawer of the filing cabinet, metal, how it echoed in the small room, startling him momentarily from trying to read Fisk's mood. He hadn't told Christie the whole bit about being asked to stay back for the safety of everyone else, like he was a liability, and how no one would want him as a partner. Those were things he'd known deep down before he even went in there, things he'd been afraid of himself. But he knew he had to try.

He hadn't told her a bit about how damn hard it had been, following Karen around, leaning on her, having her tell him when to stay back. Trying to get his feet back under him that first day. He'd been a detective for ten years, then suddenly he'd wondered how he'd be able to find his way around a crime scene. He'd been a detective for ten years and everyone was worried he would be a danger to himself, to others. He'd been a detective for ten years, but he had to admit he'd been scared.

Back in the apartment, needing a beer, feeling the only one who'd helped him that day was a dog. Everyone else had questioned everything, from how he was going to get to the precinct to how he was going to conduct interviews. And Terry showing up… He'd needed to be home. He'd been tired, amazed at how much energy he'd lost. At first, everything seemed so right, Christie running to greet him, asking him how his day was. He'd been busy. When he realized that, he'd smiled. He'd missed being busy. Even fighting everyone for position, maybe that didn't matter so much, if he could be busy again. He'd prove himself eventually and everything would be fine and he'd come home every night to Christie and she'd be happy to see him and ask him how his day was—and she wouldn't question him.

He hadn't told her any of that. Just the bit about the dog ashes. He hadn't gone into the nitty gritty of the case with the serial killer and the clues they'd found. All he'd told her was the bit with the car, standing outside Kim Chenowith's apartment, and going through the car. He'd told her the bit where the officer thought he was crazy for coming back on the job. The bit about being accosted by news reporters on his way there, though she'd already known; she'd seen the news before he got home from work that first day. She'd told him she'd been so excited about his first day back, she'd come home early just to be there as soon as he got home.

The chair slid back. He'd kept his foot on the leg after she left, so he'd be sure to know the second she got back. He pulled his leg back to his side of the table, keeping his hands relaxed on either side of his plate, looking straight ahead. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"Yeah, fine," she said. "Looks good."

He heard her silverware clink. One of his hands clenched into a fist. "So…"

"You didn't have to wait for me."

"Christie—"

"Mmm, you want a bite? Delicious."

Jim swallowed hard and shook his head, knowing the conversation was done before it had even started.

* * *

Jim's hand slid down into hers as they slowly walked through Central Park. She'd told him it was dark already and a lot of people had gone home, so it wasn't as crowded. She shivered and Jim stopped her.

"Cold?" he asked and pulled her close.

She shivered again.

He buttoned up her coat. "Better?"

She nodded, then forced an affirmative noise. She let him take her hand again.

"Maybe we should go back," he said.

"No, I'll be fine. We just have to keep moving."

He bent down to kiss her, but she didn't help him find her mouth, couldn't respond.

"Either everything's fine, or it's not," he said, starting to walk, faster than before.

"Everything's fine," she assured him, her voice shaking. "I'm just cold."

His hand stiffened in hers. Christie looked up at him. His mouth was pressed in a line. He didn't say anything else. She turned away, watching other people walk through the park, hand in hand. Jimmy was there, with her, just the two of them. It was cold, it was romantic, they'd had a nice dinner. This was for her birthday. She should be happy. She finally had him all to herself. Nothing was going to take that away. All she had to do was enjoy it. She owed him that, at least, didn't she?

"Come on," she said, forcing herself to sound more chipper. She took a different path, following a warm smell to a sidewalk vendor.

"Dessert?" Jimmy asked, trying to smile down at her as she stopped.

She ordered a funnel cake and they took it to a bench. She watched him sit, then settled in next to him. He put an arm around her, but when she looked up into his face, he looked… worried, concerned, confused. He had to have noticed she hadn't enjoyed the rest of their dinner. She moved closer, shivering again, and broke off a piece of the hot fried bread. "Open," she ordered, her voice almost steady. Jimmy's eyes closed and his mouth opened and she fed him, then kissed him. She licked the powdered sugar off her fingers. In between bites and feeding him, she described the people around them, finally relaxing. This was Jimmy, he'd promised never to cheat on her again, he was with her, he was trying. She had to give him credit, she couldn't just ignore him. She had to try, too.

"I'm going to get some hot chocolate," she said and jumped up, hurrying off. She turned back and saw Jimmy'd stood, his arm outstretched as if to grab her elbow and come with, but she was too far away and didn't want him to know she'd seen, so she hurried on without slackening her pace.

She was only gone a minute, but when she came back, his head was down, he was frowning, staring at the sidewalk. He shifted on the bench, but lifted his head when he heard her footsteps on the concrete. She hurried over, two cups in hand and slid back against him into place on the bench. Her spot had grown cold while she'd been gone. "Here," she said, nudging him with the other cup. She blew on her own as his hand found the paper cup. He wrapped his hands around it.

Christie breathed in the smell of the chocolate and smiled. She looked over at her husband and wrapped an ankle around his, since her hands were toasty around the cup. "It smells like Christmas, doesn't it?"

"Almost," he agreed. "Not enough pine, but almost."

"We should start our Christmas shopping soon, avoid the crowds."

Jimmy smiled. "It's a little early, don't you think? Karen invited us to this Halloween party." He laughed and shook his head.

"What'd you say?"

"No. Definitely no."

"You never did care for Halloween much."

"I could go as a pirate now, get two eye patches…" He blew on his cup of cocoa.

"We could go, to the party, I mean."

Jimmy shook his head again. "I'm not that comfortable at parties yet."

Christie was quiet, thinking. She'd planned to ask him about hosting a party at their place for some clients and co-workers. Even though the party her boss had held was a disaster, she had thought, being on familiar ground, maybe Jimmy'd agree. Then again, maybe it would be worse, in his own home, being taken over by strangers, running into people and their things as he tried to move around. The unfamiliar in the familiar. "That's okay, it'll come."

"Dinner wasn't bad…" he said slowly, a question in his voice. He'd definitely noticed something was up with her, but she knew he wouldn't ask.

"No, dinner wasn't bad," she agreed.

"You want to go see a movie?" he asked suddenly.

"Jimmy…"

"What?" He smiled down at her. "It's dark, it's private…" He bent over and kissed the top of her head. "Are you telling me people actually go to movies to watch them?"

"I'll think about it," she said. "Maybe I'll see where the closest drive-in is."

He nodded. "That would be fun. I haven't been to a drive-in for…" he trailed off. "Last time I was at a drive-in, I drove. We actually smuggled a guy in in the trunk."

Christie laughed.

"I kept telling him I couldn't get the trunk open, we'd have to call a locksmith." He squeezed her close with his arm around her shoulder.

She took his empty cup. "Let's walk."

* * *

"So it was boys' night out and Karen was an accessory?" Anne asked about the undercover night Karen had just been telling her about.

They were back at the Swan Dive. Anne often requested to go there, said she had a soft spot for it in her heart, surrounded by heartbreak and romance. Karen wasn't so sure. A lot of weepy prima donnas weren't her idea of good company.

Karen shook her head. "It wasn't like that."

"They let you play, too?"

"Anne!"

"I'm just asking. You're always going on about how they don't respect you. Sounds to me like you were just there to make Dunbar look… normal."

Karen shot her a look.

"It's weird, thinking of him not being able to see."

Karen put her head down. It was kinda weird for her, thinking of Jim being _able_ to see.

"Do you think he's handsome?" Anne asked.

"Excuse me?" Karen said and quickly downed the shot her friend had just bought her.

"Do you?"

"He's my partner."

"That doesn't make you immune. The world is full of people who fall in love with people they shouldn't."

"Yeah, Anne, and I'm not one of them."

"So do you think he's handsome?"

"I never really looked." Karen scrutinized her friend with the best of her detecting skills. "Are you trying to get me to say any girl would fall for him so you don't feel so bad?"

"Of course not!" Anne raised her hand to order another round of drinks. "I just want to make sure you don't get sucked in."

Karen didn't say that Jim Dunbar didn't seem quite as devious and womanizing as Anne had always made him out to be.

"Is it because he's blind? Because I know that if he could see, he'd be all over you. He'd always have his hands on you and he'd say nice things… But I bet if I met him now, I bet I'd be immune."

"He's just blind," Karen said, sinking down in her seat, exhausted from the conversation. Anne's obsession had had that effect on her lately. They never managed to pick up any guys when Anne was in serious mode, so it was going to be an early evening. "If a guy has roving hands, blindness would just be a good excuse to use them, you know? Oops, sorry, didn't mean to fondle you there, and all that."

"Does he hit on you?"

"Anne! Maybe he learned his lesson, you ever think of that? Maybe you were that one special person and he couldn't help himself and you should feel flattered."

Anne stared at the table, unable to answer for a while. "Is he doing okay? I mean, since the shooting—I never got to see him," she said quietly, still staring down and playing with a cocktail napkin.

Karen sighed. "He's fine."

"Is he still with his wife?" Anne asked, her voice suddenly icy.

"Yeah."

"She forgive him?"

"I guess so. I don't know."

"He'll never learn! You watch yourself, it's only a matter of time. He'll be out, playing up the pity card, getting all sorts of women, and you're going to be in the middle of it, even if you're immune."

"Karen! Who's this?"

Karen turned and saw Marty, wearing his usual dress shirt and tie. Karen sighed. "Marty Russo, Anne Donnelly. Marty works with me at the 8."

Anne groaned. "Don't tell me, another Dunbar lackey?"

Marty perked up, grinning and pulled up a chair across from Anne. "What is this, a bash on Dunbar party?" He ordered Anne another drink.

Anne was turning on the charm and flirting terribly. Karen rolled her eyes. "Anne, Marty's married," Karen said.

"Oh," Anne said, her smile fading like she'd found out he had leprosy. She put her nose in the air. "I don't date cops or married men," she said.

Marty nodded. "So, how do you know Dunbar?"

Karen put her head in her hands and tried not to listen.

* * *

Marty guessed it was just one of those things a person couldn't understand until they could experience it firsthand. Blindness and infidelity, two things Marty couldn't understand. He'd seen Dunbar's wife… And Jim had still been able to see his wife…

Not to say that a wife had to be ugly to cheat on her.

Maybe she was a total bitch or something.

Marty shook himself and sat down on a bench. The park was quiet this late. Homeless people and romantics tended to not make a lot of noise. The cold seeped through his jeans and he stuck his hands in his coat pockets, hunched over as the wind blew. He couldn't go home to his own wife right then—she was sweet, innocent, stayed home to take care of the kid. He'd take one look at her and all the animosity he'd ever felt for Dunbar would explode; he'd never be able to look at the man again, might even take him up on that offer for a scrap in the alley.

His eyes narrowed just thinking about his wife—he'd never cheat on her. But if Jim's wife was mean, or if she'd had affairs herself—no; he wasn't going to justify Jim's actions.

But if he didn't, how could he accept what happened and move on?

It wasn't like Jim had raped someone. He'd lied, he'd cheated—

He'd taken more than his fair share, like Marty was sometimes afraid he tried to do at work. Like he was trying to be Supercop and never let anyone else have a chance. It was like Jim was the kid in junior high who tried to score all the points for the basketball team and never backed off to let someone else show their stuff, even pushed his own teammates down and stole the ball. No, that wasn't jealousy. Jim just needed to grow up. Maybe someone needed to tell him to keep his hands to himself, learn to share and not steal everyone else's toys.

Just thinking of junior high made Marty's guts twist and his hands clench. He didn't want to imagine how spoiled Jim probably had been then, Mr. Perfect back when he could see, could do no wrong. Whatever could make a guy who had everything take more? Whatever had made Jim, with his gorgeous wife, go after another girl?

But if Marty couldn't accept it and couldn't justify it, how was he supposed to work with Jim day in and day out?

Marty stood up and pounded his numb feet on the sidewalk. Some people just screwed themselves, no matter what they did. Marty'd work with Jim, but he'd have to take it upon himself to make sure the other detective kept his hand out of the cookie jar, so to speak.

Good thing the man couldn't see the cookie jar anymore—take away the temptation. But damn, it didn't matter that Marty could see and Jim couldn't and he should have felt superior, or felt pity, or should have tried to be helpful—no matter what he should have felt, Dunbar had always rubbed him the wrong way. He had trouble feeling anything but anger toward Jim.

* * *

Jim flopped on the couch, TV remote in hand, then just sat there without turning it on.

"Jimmy?" Christie asked.

"Yeah?" he called back. It sounded like she was in the kitchen.

"What are you doing?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I'm not very good at just hanging around the house all afternoon." He turned the remote over in his hands. He could have been watching a game or something, though he preferred the ones on the radio. And he really didn't need background noise. He tossed the remote on the couch.

"You better pick that up," Christie said from right behind him.

He tilted his head back and smiled up at her. "Yes, ma'am." He reached over and his fingers grazed the back of her hand as she snatched up the remote. He cocked his head to the side as he turned to her.

She leaned against the back of the couch. "A man without a remote, what will he do now?"

"I should go down to the precinct and work. That's what I _should_ do." He leaned back on the couch. "You want to go out and do something?"

"Like what?"

"I dunno. We could take the dog for a walk and play in the park. Stop and have coffee. It's New York, there's always something to do, right?"

"Don't you want to get some work done?"

"Not today. I said I _should_, that doesn't mean I have to. If you're not doing anything…"

"Wow," she said. "Three days in a row." She dropped the remote back on the couch and started moving away. "I'll go get my coat."

Jim stood up, but he felt uneasy. The way she said "three days in a row," it stabbed him in the heart. Not just the tone of her voice, bordering on sarcastic, but the truth behind it. They really didn't spend much time together.

It was also the same feeling he'd gotten on their date last night. That she was holding something back.

He shook his head and called Hank over to clip his leash on. Jim put a Frisbee and a ball in a plastic bag before he heard Christie come back. "Ready?" he said.

"No harness?"

"We're walking the dog. He's not walking me." Jim held out a hand to her. "Okay? Just a regular couple, taking their dog to the park."

"Okay. _Our_ dog, huh?"

"Yeah, _our_ dog." Really, Hank was just Jim's dog. When he got Hank, went through all the training, they'd ingrained that in him. If he was just Jim's dog, he would only obey Jim, look out for Jim, not be torn between two masters. But for the day, they could pretend. They could give Hank a day to just be a dog. He squeezed her hand, which was cold even in the apartment. "Are you going to be warm enough?" He stopped and grabbed his keys off the table.

"Are you going to button my coat up again?"

"Do you need me to?"

She laughed.

Jim followed her to the elevator. He knew their building well enough he didn't need a guide. It was strange, realizing he used to love to come home after work so he could just be in a place he knew the layout of. But now he was ready to get out into the world again, even if he didn't have it all mapped out, even if he couldn't control everything.

She slipped her arm through his. "This is nice," she said.

Jim pressed the elevator button.

"Hank looks confused," Christie whispered. "He's staring at you."

Jim untangled himself from Christie's arm and knelt on the floor of the elevator. He put a hand on Hank's head to make sure the dog was facing him. "We're taking you for a walk. You're going to play in the park." Hank made a strange noise that sounded like he was confused. "You're a dog," Jim explained. Hank laid his head on Jim's shoulder.

The elevator dinged and Jim stood back up. Hank stopped at the entrance of the building and looked both ways, even as Jim followed Christie. He tugged on the leash. Hank stopped at the curb at the end of the street and wouldn't get down when Jim stepped out. "Forward," Jim ordered. Hank looked both ways and stepped out.

Christie laughed.

"Maybe this wasn't such a good idea," Jim said.

"You're right, he needs a day off." She led him around the corner to a small park and Jim got out the ball. He unclipped Hank's leash.

"You remember how to fetch, right?" Jim asked. He tossed the ball, more up than out, always worried about other park-goers. Hank took off running, unable to resist.

Hank dropped to the ground as he attacked the ball. It had been a while since he'd gotten out to play. He rolled in the dirt really quickly before running back to Jim and dropping the ball at his feet. He waited patiently for Jim to find the rolling ball, covered in dirt and saliva, and toss it again. Hank took off before it landed, prepared to snatch it straight out of the air. Again he dropped to the ground and rolled. It was no fun playing if you were clean, he thought. And he was always cleaned, groomed, brushed. Every night. He was the prettiest dog in town, sure, but once in a while—he shook dirt from his fur and watched it flying in the air, then sneezed happily.

He'd been confused at first, leaving the building. He never left without the harness. It was his sworn duty to guide Jim and make sure no harm came to him. And the girl, he'd never trusted her much, not since she wouldn't have anything to do with him.

He dropped the ball at her feet, just to see what she'd do. Jim was kneeling in the mostly dead grass, but the wife was standing right behind him, watching, her hands in her pockets. Jim turned and picked up the ball. Hank gave an inward doggy shrug—no one could say he hadn't tried to be friends.

Hank lounged at their feet while they sat on a bench holding hands. He was panting and could feel the dust coating his fur. He leaned back, his head on Jim's foot, and yawned. He hoped they wouldn't go anywhere for a while, just sit there and soak up the late afternoon autumn sun. Christie was laughing and Jim was talking. Hank watched them a moment before his eyes closed, thinking they must look like a family.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

"I got a copy of that message from Mrs. Whittleton," Fisk said. "Karen?"

"Yeah, I'll listen," she said.

"Marty and I talked to her," Tom said. "We'll take a listen, too."

Marty didn't say anything.

"Phone services has been looking deeper into that pager number, but they haven't come up with anything so we're just gonna call it, see what happens," Fisk told them.

Karen got a tape player and they all gathered around her desk. Jim stood right behind her as she hit play.

"Hi-ii!" a girl's voice sing-songed. "Mom, Paris is great, having a wonderful time, wish you were here—ha ha! I'm learning French—oui, oui, où est Sylvie, s'il vous plaît. Gotta go have a baguette. By-ye!"

"That's it?" Karen asked.

"The girl calls half-way across the world and that's all she says?" Tom asked.

"Is it her?" Jim asked.

"I think so," Karen said. "It's gotta be hard to impersonate someone while talking that fast about nothing."

"Karen," Tom reprimanded her tastelessness.

"Since we know she was already dead when her mom got this call, she must have recorded a bunch of messages and someone's been calling when they know the mom's gone," Jim speculated.

"Phone services has the number listed as being from upstate," Fisk said. "No incoming calls from Europe to the Whittleton residence in the past six months."

"So why'd she make a bunch of tapes for someone else?" Karen asked.

"Do we know what the other messages said?" Jim asked.

Fisk said, "Mrs. Whittleton said this one was just par for the course. The past few weeks, she's been out of the house for every call—"

"Meaning maybe someone knows when she's leaving," Tom said. "They don't want her to actually be able to talk to the girl, just to think she's okay."

"So why'd she record a bunch of messages that just say "hi, I'm gonna have a baguette"?" Karen asked.

"The less consequential the call, the less likely the mom's gonna get worried, right?" Jim said.

"She was just checking in. You don't need to say anything too deep in that case," Tom said.

"I just want to know why Samantha would _willingly_—" Jim started.

"—help whoever killed her?" Karen finished.

"Is it related?" Tom asked. "You think she made the tapes willingly?"

"It has to be related," Jim said. "And it certainly sounded willing."

"Maybe they were coded," Tom suggested. "If she knew she was in big trouble, maybe all the messages put together mean, "Mom, I'm in trouble, this is where I am."

"Tom," Karen said, sounding like she was wrinkling her nose at the theory. "This is _Samantha_."

"Yeah…"

"Maybe she didn't know what the tapes were for," Karen put in. "Maybe it was just a big joke, or she just didn't want to talk to her mom."

"Then why say she was leaving the country? And why make tapes? Why not just call herself when she knew her mom wouldn't be there?" Jim asked.

"There was no pattern of times to the calls," Fisk said. "It seems random, so we can't just stake out a phone booth—not that it looks like they even used the same phone booth twice."

"And why wouldn't she have told her mom she had a baby?" Karen asked. "It didn't sound like they were on bad terms."

"If you come up with anything, we'll get the mom back in here," Fisk said, then walked off.

Jim started making notes on his computer, trying to work everything out. Time telescoped and the next thing he knew, he heard footsteps walking up. He pulled out his earpiece.

"I just paged that number you all got at the bar," Fisk said from just the other side of Marty's desk. "The plan is, we want just enough of the stuff for one person and we'll meet them at Bertrice's Diner for the exchange. Who wants to take the call?"

"My vote's for Jim," Tom said.

"Yeah, he got the card," Karen said.

"And since he can't be in on the undercover drop," Tom added.

Jim kept his face neutral. It probably was best he didn't go with, but that didn't mean he didn't feel a pang at getting left behind. He was a cop and, responsibly, he knew to stay out of the way. But the other half of his cop brain wanted to run in there and finish this case once and for all.

"Whatever," Marty said.

Jim listened as Fisk moved over toward his desk.

"You want the call?"

"Sure."

There was a pause. "Jim."

"Yeah?"

"The phone."

Jim felt Fisk's hand waving in front of his face in the sudden silence. It took him a second to realize Fisk would have a cell phone that wouldn't be traceable back to the station. Marty snickered as Jim held up his hand. Jim clasped the small phone, glad it was a flip phone so he wouldn't have to ask Fisk which button he would need to press. "Next time you could just set it down on the desk," Jim said quietly.

"Right."

Jim set the phone in front of him while Fisk moved back toward the windows. "We'll have Marty and Tom take care of the actual deal."

Jim nodded. He was relieved when the phone rang a second later. Fisk lunged forward and grabbed it just before Jim's hand landed on it.

"They're calling from a pay phone," he said.

Jim heard him set the phone back as it rang again. He resituated it so it was facing the right way, then flipped it open. "Yeah?"

The squad room grew silent.

"You called?" a male asked. Jim estimated him to be about fifty, a big guy from the sound of his voice.

"Yeah."

"You want some?"

"Yeah."

"What for?"

Jim remembered what the guy in the bar had asked so he said, "It's for a good cause."

"How much?"

"Enough for one."

"Where?"

"Bertrice's Diner."

"Fine. You be alone?"

"Yeah."

"What do you look like?"

Jim looked over at Marty quickly. "What do I _look_ like?" he asked. Marty would be the most likely one to pose as the buyer, the closest in height and weight and probably in looks, though Jim didn't know what he looked like.

The man on the phone started explaining using very small words, saying that if he didn't have a description, how were they going to find each other. Marty had laughed at the same time and said something about if you don't know what you look like—

Jim waved him off and pointed at Marty, mouthing "you."

"Me? I'm five-ten, dark hair…"

Jim passed on that information to the guy on the phone.

"Are you a big guy?"

"Not big…" Jim said.

"Can't you be more specific?" the man asked.

Jim thought quickly. "How about a little poetic justice, to make it really easy—I'll be wearing a red flower on my coat, how's that?"

"What kind?"

Jim forced a laugh. "Do you prefer roses or carnations?" he asked the man.

"Carnations."

"Then a bright red carnation it is."

"We'll meet at 5:30. What are you going to use it for?"

"You don't need to know that. You supply, I pay you what it's worth—"

"It's free, so to speak. I would never charge money. 5:30." He hung up.

Jim flipped the phone shut. "5:30," he told the other detectives. "It's free. Marty, you need a red carnation and no, I don't know what you look like." He handed the phone over his shoulder to where Fisk was standing.

* * *

Marty was quiet. He'd been quiet all day. Jim did his work and tried not to think about what could be bothering the other detective, but it seemed strange that neither Tom nor Karen had seemed to notice anything unusual. Maybe he'd ask Karen later to keep an eye on Marty. If he said anything himself, it would probably go over badly.

"Does Marty seem quiet to you?" Jim asked Karen as they were walking back to the car after checking out a lead that had gone nowhere.

Jim felt her shrug. "No."

He mused over that, staring toward the window on the ride back to the precinct. He rubbed his hand over his mouth.

Come on, Karen's not that unobservant, he said to himself. Maybe something happened at home and Marty just wanted to keep it to himself. Marty wasn't a personal-type guy—he kept to himself. Just like Jim tried to do.

But when Hank led him into the squad room, Jim heard Tom and Marty laughing in the locker room. The sound chilled him and he wasn't sure why. It wasn't like evil laughter…

"Hey, Jim," Tom said when he walked back into the squad room.

"Hey," Jim said, looking up from his computer.

He heard Marty sit down at his desk and he heard silence.

"Hey, Marty," Jim said and busied himself at his own desk.

"Oh," Marty said. "Uh, hey." Jim heard Marty's chair slide back. "Just leaving." He pushed in the chair and walked away.

"Did you and Marty get into a fight again?" Tom asked after a few minutes.

"Not while I was there." Jim imagined Tom nodding or shrugging in the silence. "He okay with you?"

"Yeah, no problems," Tom said.

Jim tried to shrug casually, but he could feel his face squinching distastefully. "Then it's just me."

Tom came over and pulled out Karen's chair. Jim turned. That was uncharacteristic. "S'up with you two?"

"Believe me, Tom, I have no idea."

"'Cause, you know, it's really awkward trying to work with the two of you. I thought you'd worked everything out."

"So'd I." Jim bit his lip. He put his elbows up on his desk and pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking. Finally he shook his head. "Nothing. I can't think of anything."

"You didn't park in his spot again, did you?"

Jim grinned. "Maybe that's it."

Tom stood up. "Got some leg work to do."

Jim nodded. "Don't worry. We'll work it out again. I'll figure it out."

"Promises, promises," Tom said as he walked away.

It didn't make sense. Marty and him had been doing so well. Jim turned his chair back around and stared into space, rubbing his hand over his mouth. In fact, they'd been doing better than well. Marty hadn't been questioning his ability to do his job, even going so far as to invite him on their excursion to the bar.

Karen walked up, sneezing.

"Bless you," Jim said absently.

"You wanna go see DeLana?" she asked.

"But we—"

"That Mulhaney guy's gone. I'll make sure we're not being followed."

Jim sat up straighter. "Why, bless your heart." He put on his sunglasses and stood up, suddenly excited, forgetting all about Marty. "I've been wanting to do this for days." Hank jumped up and Jim headed out of the squad room.

"Wait for me!" Karen said.

Jim turned back and laughed.

"I didn't think you'd be that gung-ho," she muttered as she joined him, pulling her coat on.

They headed for a small house outside the city. They'd been told it was rundown, but still had enough amenities for DeLana and the kids for a few days. Jim settled into the car, thinking Karen was kind of quiet, but then again, he didn't break the silence, either.

* * *

Marty stopped at the corner by Fisk's office and glanced into the room. Jim and Karen weren't there, so he proceeded. He had work to do, though he'd been avoiding his desk most of the day.

He was sticking to his promise—he wasn't going to let Jim get away with anything. The way the cocky bastard had taken over the phone call… but Marty was relieved at least he wouldn't be in on the drop. At least then he'd have nothing to be smug about.

Marty hadn't said anything when Jim walked in that morning. He'd watched the other detective walk in with Hank, pull out his laptop, sit down and get right to work. He'd stared at him a minute, trying to figure him out. Before he met Anne, he'd been thinking the same thing Jim had told him at the bar: that they were all coming together as a squad. Yeah, sometimes Jim needed a little help, but he was a team player and they were working together pretty well. That's why Marty'd invited him out to the bar that night. It was a harmless little sting operation, something Jim could partake in.

Marty had found he was glaring at Jim. They'd almost been friends or something.

It was humbling, seeing a detective ask for help. Marty was self-sufficient, and he knew Jim always had been. He'd seen the look on Jim's face when he asked what Marty looked like, how even that little bit killed him. And Marty had almost felt compassion.

But he knew Jim wouldn't change. A guy like that, someone who'd willingly cheat on his wife. He didn't deserve her forgiveness. And even though right now he'd accept help from the other detectives in the squad and he'd stay back, Marty knew it was only a matter of time before he was back in his old habits. Like when he'd drawn his gun on the street—Marty'd heard the gossip from some other cops about that one, how Jim had gotten reamed for following his instincts. It was only a matter of time, but Marty was going to be prepared.

"What'd Dunbar do to you now?" Tom asked.

Marty looked up from where he'd been hunched over his computer, staring at nothing. "Nothing," he said. "I'm just keeping an eye on him."

"I thought you two were over all that," Tom said.

"I told you—"

"And I don't buy it."

"Let's just say I learned something about our good friend Jim and I'm—I don't trust him."

"What'd he do?" Tom leaned forward. "He on the take or something?"

Marty just shook his head.

"Look, Marty, get over it. We were working better together. Don't screw that up, okay?"

"I'm just making sure we _keep_ working well together."

Tom sort of snorted.

Marty turned back to his computer and ignored him. He was looking out for all of them; they'd see that soon enough. It was only a matter of time.

* * *

"Where've you been, detective? I thought you forgot about us."

"I could never forget you, DeLana, believe me."

She laughed at him. "Because you think I'm a pain in the ass?"

Jim grinned. "Even if I thought that, I'd never tell you."

"Hmph," she snorted. "See, that's where you're different from Detective Russo. He doesn't pretend he's a nice guy."

Jim frowned. "I wouldn't pretend something like that."

"Sure you would. You're all nice to everyone. You might think you like everyone, but I don't think you do."

"No?" Jim shrugged. "Which do you prefer?"

"I'd prefer it if people just _were_ nice."

Jim nodded. "And you know what I want? I'd like to be able to help you. I like to help people."

"Because it makes you feel good or because you like to make other people feel good?"

"Is it bad to do both?" Jim asked. He did like to feel useful, to be busy.

She was quiet for a minute. Jim waited. "I shrugged," she finally said.

"Oh." Jim looked away.

"Sorry."

"Not your fault."

"Not yours, either."

Jim turned back and smiled. "A lot of people think it is."

"You really want to help?"

"I would. Are you going to let me?"

"I don't see what you can help me with."

Jim was quiet, waiting. DeLana didn't continue and he sighed. "It's okay, I've got all day."

"Fine. So do I."

"There a chair around here somewhere?"

"Across the room. There's a coffee table in front of the couch, though."

Jim took Hank's harness and nudged him that direction. When he was seated he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a jar of grape jelly. He'd gotten Karen to stop on the way out. "Here. I thought you might be running low." He felt for the coffee table she'd told him about and set it down.

Jim asked her about the kids, trying to get her to open up. She told him a few funny, inconsequential stories. He asked about her friends and family and she shut down. He asked about her mom and she refused to talk. He asked about her job and she gushed about how much fun she'd had, ordering these big execs around and making their plans for them. She'd been able to dictate their lives, even tell them what to have for dinner, and they'd listen, not like her kids.

"Your girlfriend's asleep," Tamika said.

"Tamika, don't hover," DeLana said.

Tamika came closer and sat on the floor.

"She's not my girlfriend, she's my partner," Jim said.

"Isn't that the same thing?"

Jim shook his head. "Colleagues. We work together. Co-workers. Business associates."

"Isn't that the same thing? You spend all your time together."

"And then I go home to my wife," he said. He stood up and stretched. "Where is she? We'd probably better be heading back."

"Come back and visit sometime, detective," DeLana said.

Tamika stood up. "I'll take you." She took Jim's hand.

"Thanks," he said and put his hand on the little girl's shoulder.

"DeWanda smeared lipstick on her face," she whispered when they reached the hallway. The sound bounced off the walls, belying the emptiness of the house. Jim reached out and touched a wall, sliding his hand along it, counting doorways. "Don't tell her."

Jim laughed. "Don't tell her she has lipstick on her face, or don't tell her your little sister did it?"

"Yeah, don't tell her who did it."

Tamika stopped and Jim knocked on the half-closed door. He heard someone move a little.

"Did'n do't," a little voice yelled and brushed past Jim into the hall.

He laughed again. "Morning, sleepy head," he said, listening for signs of life from Karen.

"She's curled up on the bed," Tamika said. "We all got our own rooms here, you know? It's cool."

"Good, I'm glad," Jim said. "Hey, Tamika, have you ever met your grandma?"

She pulled away from his hand. "No. She's mean."

"How do you know?"

"Momma told me she had to leave and we couldn't talk to her anymore." It sounded like Tamika was almost pouting, angry, but near tears.

"Okay," Jim said, dropping it. "Thanks." He moved forward slowly, a hand outstretched. His shin hit the low bed first and he felt around a little, hearing Karen breathing now. He found her body and shook it lightly, careful of where he touched. "Karen," he said. "You want to spend the night here?"

"Yeah!" Tamika said. "You should have a sleepover! We'll curl her hair and you can make popcorn. We don't get popcorn 'cept when Uncle Rico makes it, 'cause I guess only guys make popcorn."

Jim sat on the corner of the bed, relieved she didn't ask where her Uncle Rico was.

Karen stretched.

He pulled off his sunglasses and looked down at her.

"Jim?" she asked, sounding confused. She sat up and looked around.

"Tired?"

"No," she said.

"Karen, you have a little lipstick on your face," he said.

"Yeah, right, Jim. Tom told me about your little comments. I'm your partner; I'm not going to fall for it."

Jim shrugged and stood up, holding his hand out to help her off the bed. Her hand was hot, but he just figured it was from sleeping in her coat in the stuffy bedroom.

"What the—" she started, then broke away. Jim guessed she'd raised a hand to her face to check, even if she didn't believe him. "What is this?"

"Lipstick," he said.

"What'd you do?" she accused from across the room. "It's bright pink and it's not coming off!"

"I didn't, Karen, I swear. I'm not much of an artist."

"So who—"

"No one. A little birdie told me."

"Bathroom's down the hall," Tamika said, giggling.

Jim grinned when she brushed past, then laughed.

"This isn't funny!" Karen yelled back.

* * *

Jim glanced over at Karen as they sat at their desks. "Karen? Are your teeth chattering?"

"Ha ha, very funny," she snapped back.

"No, seriously," he pushed.

"It's cold in here. Aren't you cold?"

"Not particularly…"

"Yeah, well you're a guy, right? Guys are never cold."

"Put your coat on."

"It is," she mumbled. She blew on a cup of coffee, sending the smell wafting over toward Jim.

Jim leaned back, looking toward her. "Are you okay?" She'd been sniffling lately, but she'd just complained of allergies. "Karen, if you're dying, go home."

"I'm not dying. I have a little cold, maybe, but I think it's just hay fever."

Jim slid his chair over to her and reached out, lightly touching her shoulder to get his bearings. He felt a little awkward, even after that night at the bar. If she wasn't sick, she'd be sure to clobber him.

Jim reached carefully, making sure not to cross any boundaries. His hand touched her hair, just a few strands, then moved up to rest on her forehead.

"Come on, Jim, this is really embarrassing."

Jim pulled back. "You're burning up."

"I'm freezing to death."

"Go home, make some soup—"

"I'm fine!"

"Karen," Marty butted in, walking up from the elevator. Jim pushed back to his desk. "You're not going to do us any good if you catch pneumonia."

"Don't patronize me, Marty," Karen snapped. "The way the case is going, we all need to be here. A day or two—"

"And it'll still be here," Marty said. "I don't think we're all that close."

"I'm fine."

Marty walked past Jim's desk toward Karen.

"Marty!" Karen gasped. "Don't—"

"It's okay, I got a kid, I'm allowed to do this." He paused. Jim figured Marty was taking Karen's temperature. "You do realize you have a fever, right?"

"A small one, maybe."

Marty moved back to his desk. "Go home, we'll take care of things and you'll be back in no time."

"But Jim—"

Marty snorted.

Jim sat up straighter. He didn't want Karen using him as an excuse not to take a day off sick.

"If Jim can't take care of himself, he shouldn't be here," Marty snapped.

Jim turned away. He couldn't help but feel that comment had been directed at him and not Karen. He quickly turned back to his report.

"Go home and pray you're not contagious," Marty said. He walked off, out of the squad.

Karen's chair creaked as she turned. "I get the feeling, if he comes down with so much as a sniffle, he'll throw me off the roof," she said quietly.

"Nah," Jim said, trying to make her feel better, "he's just being Marty."

"No," Karen countered, "that definitely wasn't normal Marty. You think he's okay?"

Jim shrugged. "None of our business, I'm sure. Go home, Karen."

"Uh, Jim…" she started, then hesitated, looking away. He heard her playing with something on her desk.

"Yeah?"

"Nothing. You'll be okay?"

"No problem. Get well, then come back."

"Keep me updated, okay? I don't want to miss anything."

* * *

"Hey, Doc," Jim said.

There was no answer. Jim cocked his head first to one side, then the other. Galloway wouldn't play some childish game of hide and seek. The office suddenly felt empty.

Jim checked his watch to make sure he was on time, then stood there in the doorway, one hand against the wall to help keep his bearings. Before, he would have walked around, checked out the art work, checked on the diploma and given Galloway a hard time about wherever he'd gone to school, looked at the books in the room. Once when he was a rookie he'd been left in a lawyer's office for an interview, the lawyer hadn't been there, so he'd gone through the guy's trash and searched the cushions of the couch, playing detective. He'd done that at Christie's parents' house once—she'd caught him and he'd been sure she'd call their engagement off.

Now he wondered what dirt he could dig up on Galloway. Paper was useless to him without his scanner and software, so the only things he'd be liable to find stuffed in the cushions of the big chairs would be loose change. Nothing much that would tell him anything about the big guy. Here he was, surrounded by Galloway's personal things and he knew next to nothing about the guy.

No, they weren't really his personal things, Jim reminded himself. An easy fallacy for a rookie to fall pretty to. This was Galloway's office. It would be filled with things the doctor _wanted_ people to see to get an impression of him. Jim wondered what sort of guy Galloway wanted to be perceived as. He also wondered, without those visual stimuli, if he saw Galloway the same way sighted people did, or if it was possible for him to pick up nuances the doctor tried to hide.

Yeah, Jim scoffed, like Galloway's neurotic or something. That would be the day—the neurotic leading the neurotic.

Jim left his post at the door and moved to his usual seat. It was uncomfortable, being there alone, like he was trespassing. But he sat down to wait. He never used to be this patient, he mused.

He still wasn't. He smiled when he realized he was antsily changing position every few seconds. Wasting time. Being a homicide detective, he hated wasting time. He could save lives if they figured the case out quickly enough. So many people didn't have time to wait.

"Jim! Sorry I'm late."

"Don't worry about it. I started without you."

"You did? What did you learn?"

"Nothing much."

"What were you analyzing?"

"You."

"And how are things on your end?"

"Things have been going pretty good at home. I thought we had it all under control, but…"

"But?"

"I don't know how to explain it, there's just something not right." He went on and told Galloway about the fight and how Christie had come back to forgive him in that strange way, telling him about the therapist and how odd that all sounded.

"Jim, I'm not about to critique another therapist's recommendations," Galloway said. "I don't know what your wife told her. I've only talked to your wife the one time."

Jim leaned back, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Doc, I just don't get it. It sounds like mumbo jumbo. Crazy, you know. That wasn't Christie. This lady's given her permission to not talk."

"Maybe that's what she needed. Or maybe Christie's misinterpreted what the doctor said. Jim, therapy is very subjective. Maybe this is the only way she can see to keep your marriage together."

Jim let his head fall to one side, looking toward Galloway with an eyebrow half-cocked. "By not talking to me?" he asked skeptically.

"You told me you haven't seen her lately, you've been fighting more often. If things kept going the way they were, do you think you two could stay together?"

"I don't know."

"You asked her once not to leave. Maybe she's trying not to."

"So I trapped her? This is Christie we're talking about. She's a very strong person—"

"Then why hasn't she ever left you?"

Jim couldn't fathom. Christie—not strong? Christie—weak? Was it possible he'd misjudged her all those years?

"Doc? Is it possible for people to need to be divorced?"

"If they'll be healthier, yes. Marriage isn't a cure-all."

Jim nodded. If they were trying too hard to save something that really shouldn't be saved, maybe they'd destroy themselves in the process.

Then again, things really had seemed better between them, even if it was only at the suggestion of some therapist.

"How are things at work?"

Jim shook his head. "I've done something to piss of Marty."

"Again?"

Jim almost laughed at the surprise in the doctor's voice. "Doc, am I really such a jerk?" He knew why Christie got mad with him: the affair, and him so often thinking about work that he would forget about her. But Marty? He had no idea what he'd done to Marty.

A moment of silence, then, "You have a strong personality, but I don't think you're a jerk."

"I just wish I knew what I did." He rubbed his hand over his mouth, looking up, running through everything he and Marty had talked about recently.

"You could ask."

Jim closed his eyes a second. He wasn't ready for another fight. He was still drained from the one with Christie, even though the weekend had gone well. It had been relaxing, yet every time he thought of the fight, he tensed back up. How could Christie have just gotten over it? He wondered if she had cried herself to sleep after their fight, before he'd come to bed. He knew there had to be something else she wanted to say. And then they'd gone and had a nice weekend, comfortable, quiet, spending time together. Just like before.

* * *

Tom stayed out front in the car. He'd dropped Marty off a couple blocks away, then parked across the street from the diner. Marty barely glanced at the car as he walked up to the diner, not wanting to call attention to it.

Marty stalked in, the damn carnation smooshed into a button hole on his black leather coat. He frowned as he looked around and saw only one table open, back against the wall by the one where they'd found Reg Schmidt pretending to be Brian Mulhaney. He threaded his way through, bumping into someone on their way out, momentarily distracted. He looked back up at the table and saw a small box sitting there, gift wrapped with a bow. He spun back, but the guy he'd run into was nowhere to be seen, and his carnation was gone.

Marty paused and looked around, trying to focus on what had happened. Had the guy been waiting, seen him headed for the only table, dumped it and left? That seemed the most likely explanation. He grabbed the box and saw a little gift card. "Five-ten, dark hair, red carnation," it read. He swore to himself, then headed out of the diner. He looked up and down the street, but it was too crowded, so all he could do was walk off to the spot where he was to meet Tom.

A single pill that looked suspiciously like aspirin lay nestled in a bed of cotton. Not a single print could be lifted from the box.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

Jim didn't sleep well that night. He kept waking up, thinking. There were never any useful revelations, leaving him tired, groggy, and frustrated by morning. He rose before Christie, as usual. He could function on little sleep, he knew. He'd never been a great sleeper, and after the shooting, when he'd started having nightmares, he'd been conflicted over whether or not he should try it at all. One the one hand, he was blind, so the less time he spent awake, the better. On the other hand, sleep offered little comfort, leaving him disoriented and often frightened.

The nightmares didn't come as frequently now, but he still found it difficult to sleep, always plagued with thoughts of how he was screwing up his life, no matter what he did.

The latest thing with Christie had been the problem last night. He just couldn't get over it. Yeah, he admitted he had enjoyed spending the weekend with her, but there was just something false about the whole thing. He could feel the tension still bubbling underneath, especially at Christie's birthday dinner, letting him know things weren't likely to stay okay much longer. It was only a matter of time.

And the Marty thing, that was just… icing. Something to top it all off.

Maybe Galloway wouldn't question another therapist's recommendations, but Jim felt he had no choice. He stepped out of the shower and heard Christie get up. Now was as good a time as any, he guessed. That way, even if the discussion went badly, they could both head off to work and cool down.

He followed her into the kitchen half-dressed, pulling his shirt over his shoulders, his tie between his teeth. He shrugged the shirt into place and removed the tie, listening carefully for his wife. She was barefoot and quiet, but he could hear her making coffee.

"Christie?" he asked as he started to button his shirt. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yeah," she said, her voice still rough with sleep. "Is something wrong?" She came over and finished buttoning his shirt, then started to put his tie on. He let her, even though he'd never much enjoyed her fussing over his clothes.

He cleared his throat. "Is something wrong?" he asked her back.

"What do you mean?"

"This weekend, at dinner. And the whole thing with the therapist. Don't get me wrong, it's been great, but…"

"But?"

"Did you really just… forget?"

"Forget what?"

Jim bobbed his head to one side, then the other. "Okay, forgive. Did you?"

"Forgive what?"

It was early and his interviewing skills didn't extend to his wife. It wasn't like she'd committed some crime by trying to pretend nothing had ever been wrong between them. Couldn't he just accept it and enjoy it?

But he still had that feeling that everything wasn't okay, and if they just left it, it would fester, and it would come back.

"Did you forgive _me_?" he asked. "Because I just didn't think you were ever going to, and you got mad at dinner over something—"

"If you don't think I'm ever going to be able to forgive you, then why am I still here? Why are you?"

"I'm still here because I don't have to forgive me—"

"You don't?" Her voice had grown cold.

"That came out wrong." He squinched up his face and moved away a step.

"Jim, I've been trying for over a year to forgive you. So why are you bringing this up when I finally did? Do you really think I'm that unforgiving of a person?"

"Christie—"

"No, you do, don't you?"

"If you've forgiven me, why are you so mad?"

"Maybe because you won't let it go."

"Then tell me, what did I do at dinner that made you so angry?"

"I wasn't angry!" She slammed a cupboard. "I am now, but I wasn't then."

"Upset, then."

"I wasn't. I was fine."

"Christie—"

She slammed the bedroom door.

Jim sighed. They really needed a mediator.

He fell back on the couch, his good intentions mashed. He sighed again. He could hear Christie getting ready for work and he didn't dare go in there. He stared at the ceiling, listening, thinking, wondering what they were going to do.

Talking to her was almost like talking to DeLana. He never got anywhere with either of them, but at least DeLana didn't explode on him.

His stomach turned. He still hadn't gotten anything useful from DeLana, and he couldn't help but wonder if they'd jeopardized her safety by going up there. Karen had said she'd make sure they weren't followed, but she'd been sick, maybe hadn't been using her best judgment.

Anne jumped into his head. He hadn't thought about her all weekend. Yet another woman in his life—or out of his life. At least he didn't have to worry about Anne anymore. He didn't have to worry about hurting her or keeping her safe or offending her, endangering her. He didn't have to keep her happy or come home to her at night or get help from her. He didn't have to rely on her. He sighed, she was sounding better all the time.

Christie, DeLana, Karen, Anne, they swam through his head.

Karen, sick at home. He'd have to manage without her for the first time.

Christie, slamming something on the counter in the bathroom, angry again. Maybe he should have just left it; maybe nothing had been wrong and he'd misread her at dinner. Maybe she'd felt sick and didn't want him to worry.

DeLana, frightened and worried about her kids and about Artez. She'd been happy to see him the day before, even if she still refused to cooperate. All he could do was hope she lived long enough to see this case solved and to see her kids through college.

And Anne, laughing at him, poking fun at him, telling him to always sit up straight. She'd always been so strong, never clingy. She'd always had this magic pull on him, and this aura of safety. Maybe because she'd never yelled at him but in jest. Maybe because she'd never cared enough to yell at him.

He couldn't let himself get wistful over Anne.

Jim found himself dozing off. He awoke when he heard the front door slam. He sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes, stretching a crick out of his neck. He had to go to work. Christie'd cool off by the time he got home.

But he didn't get off of the couch. For once, he almost dreaded going to work. The case was falling flat, even as they found information. He felt further from solving it now than ever.

Karen wasn't there.

Marty was pissed.

He couldn't rely on the guys. He'd never had to before, not really. Tom had been helpful when Karen had been mad at him that once, but he'd never had to go a full day without her. He'd once thought he couldn't do his job without Hank, but now he realized, without Karen… he was pretty helpless. So much for being a hard ass detective again. Not when he had to rely on Karen for descriptions, to drive him around, point him in the right direction.

He almost might as well stay home sick without her there.

That cockiness he'd felt the first day back, when he'd told the boss all he wanted was a chance, that was pretty much gone. It had been replaced by the realization that, yeah, he could do his job, but he needed help. He needed good will from the other detectives and his boss.

Fisk had to remind him to be careful.

Karen had to be his eyes.

Marty had to question every move he made.

Jim got off the couch, but the only reason he went into work that day was because he couldn't watch TV.

* * *

Jim picked up the phone on his desk. "8th Squad, Detective Dunbar," he said.

"Jim, Karen. I want you guys to check something out."

"You must be feeling better?"

"Worse, actually, or I'd go over there myself."

Jim leaned across his desk, resting on his elbows. "What's up?"

Karen started coughing. When she could talk again she said, "Remember that church down the street from me that I told you'd been closed for years? I've been sitting by the window all day watching people go in. No one's come out."

Jim laughed. "Is this one of those Rear Window things?"

"Jim," Karen said, sounding exasperated, "I'm not even delirious. I didn't take too many cold medications—"

"Karen, I'm sorry. It was just the way you said it—"No one's come out,"" he imitated.

"Great, Jim, thanks." She coughed again. "Good to know I have your vote of confidence."

"Karen…"

"Jim, it's the church Samantha had written in my notebook. Remember?"

Jim's mind snapped to attention and he sat up straighter. "Yeah, I remember now. You think she was trying to tell us something?"

"Maybe."

"So we'll come check it out. Give me the address."

Karen told Jim the address and he memorized it, then hung up.

"Hey," Jim said to the guys.

"How's Karen?" Tom asked.

"Worse, but she assures me she's not hallucinating. She gave us an address to check out. An old church that's been closed down. Samantha told her about it."

"A church?" Marty asked.

"Karen's channeling dead people?" Tom asked.

Jim laughed, remembering how Karen had worded everything. "Before Samantha died, Tom," Jim clarified. "Karen's been watching people go in there all day. You guys want to hit it with me?" Jim didn't want to say that if neither of them came, he wasn't sure what he'd do. He would be able to find his way there, no problem, but as for looking for things… He could ask questions, if there were really people there, but he'd definitely like someone along to lay the scene. He stood up. Even if they didn't come, he'd check it out, maybe call Karen from his cell phone for a few clues.

"I'll pass," Marty said. "I have better things to do than traipse around an old church."

Jim sighed and put on his sunglasses.

"I'm game," Tom said.

"Aren't you relieved," Marty said as Jim walked past.

"I was going anyway, Marty," Jim said, pausing momentarily.

"To do what?" Marty asked.

"Look around," Jim replied, equally snidely. "And ask questions."

"Yeah, like: where's the door."

Jim walked away.

* * *

"You must water the world…" a voice was saying. It resonated across the high rafters, oddly distorted in a place that should have had great acoustics. Tom's description had merely been "an old church." Jim's only addition to the scene was that there were no pews, probably sold off for profit long ago. Probably anything that could have been pilfered or sold had been, nailed down or not. "You must heat the world…" It was standing room only, like a palace on wedding day. They weren't close enough for Jim to feel the other people around him, but he could tell people had packed up near the front of the church. Presumably, the speaker was the infamous Uncle Josiah. They'd caught a kid on the way in and asked him what was going down. He'd excitedly told them it was speech day, but he was late and didn't want to miss Uncle Josiah. "You must communicate with the world…"

"Let's wait outside," Tom whispered.

Jim put a hand on his arm and shook his head. "Let's hear him out."

"He hasn't said anything about feeding or clothing the world."

"He might be making an analogy."

The audience must have been so rapt that no one noticed Tom and Jim whispering in back by the door. Jim crossed his arms to wait it out. Hank lay next to him. Tom shifted uncomfortably.

"I come to you with water and warmth and I teach you the ways of the world. I listen when you speak. That makes you my people; what more do you need?"

Hank yawned loudly.

"A bath," Tom whispered and Jim shushed them both.

"There is nothing holy and there is nothing sacred. That's why you're here. You're the sensitive beings downtrodden and trodden on by the people out there who just want to get ahead in life. We don't rise up, but how can we look away? We must help each other or fall to as despicable a level as the heathens outside.

"Stop praying because there's no one listening."

Two hours later the human species had been insulted to the point of being lower than demons—where the immortal demons were banished to mortality so their lives could end in an unspectacular manner buried in rotting soil. Being human was a shame.

"Geez, Jim, it sounds like he's talking them into suicide."

Jim just nodded, trying to figure this guy out. He didn't seem like a fighter of the proletariat, defender of the underdog, but he also didn't seem to be the next Hitler or Koresh. What would he have to gain if it was an elaborate mass suicide? Was he exploiting them?

"Jim, I gotta pee."

"Go. I'll be here." Jim waved him off.

Hank jumped up to leave with Tom, wagging his tail and shaking himself. Jim motioned for him to lie down and Hank sighed. If these people'd been dogs, forced to sit around listening to this guy all day, they'd have done the smart thing—reverted to primal instinct and eaten the bastard. Hank eyed Josiah distastefully—there'd be no love lost between them, he was sure. And dogs are a good judge of character. Hank rolled over on his side, kicking Jim in the ankle as revenge for being forced to stay. Hank sighed again—the big oaf of a master probably thought the kick was unintentional—probably for the best; why endanger the doggie treat rations?

"Ah, I see we have a visitor! The blind gentleman in back."

Before Jim could blink or comprehend how it happened, the voice that had been booming from the front of the crowd was beside him.

"You look like a very organized and ritualized man," the voice said quietly. "Bet you didn't see this one coming, did you, detective? Let's take you out of your comfort zone. Come."

Jim took Hank's harness and followed the dog and the man through throngs of people to the front of the church. He climbed the stairs to the pulpit.

Hank kept an eye on Josiah so closely he nearly ran himself into the makeshift pulpit. He stopped just in time and pushed against Jim.

Jim reached down to pat Hank reassuringly, but his hand was intercepted and he was spun around to face the curious audience that had started muttering. Jim dropped Hank's harness and Hank backed away. Jim turned to follow Hank's motions, punctuated by his dog tags jingling and his toenails scratching on the floor; he'd never known the dog to show an ounce of fear, much like Jim himself tried not to. It sounded like Hank was shaking and Jim could feel that fear filling him. If Hank was scared…

"My people, look at this man."

Jim turned his attention back to the speaker and the audience. If he didn't keep track of everyone, he was worried about what would happen.

"Look, because you can, and he can't. Use your gift of sight while he stands up here and listens to you look, and feels you look."

Jim had never felt uncomfortable in a crowd, but now—even as he reasoned that that was the man's goal and he shouldn't give in—he couldn't keep himself from shifting away from the pulpit. The man grabbed his arm and Jim faced the crowed, relieved for his sunglasses.

The man's grip tightened on Jim's arm, making sure he stayed in the here and now. He touched Jim's forehead, then let go. Jim felt like he was floating, like there was no floor.

"Let's pray for this man. Let's heal him."

Jim tried to focus. He couldn't hear the crowd. He couldn't feel the man standing next to him, even though he was sure there was still a hand on his arm. The room felt odd, small, like there were lights shining on him. There was warmth on his face, like a 100 watt light bulb too close to his head.

"Let's pray." The voice was suddenly distorted, unrecognizable as the man who'd pulled him onstage.

Murmuring filled the room, making it feel even smaller than before, the sound almost tangible enough to feel.

Hank whined.

Jim blinked.

Suddenly he could feel the floor beneath his feet again and the man standing only a few inches away, no longer holding him captive. Sounds became just sounds again. Jim listened as people prayed fervently for the return of his sight.

He'd prayed for that before. It had been tough, being in the hospital, not being able to see. Voices had come out of nowhere and he hadn't felt grounded, just like he'd felt he was floating a minute ago. Trying to talk to Christie, to doctors, to hold conversations without visual stimuli… Trying to remember what was going on, remember everything that happened in a day… Images had filled his head then, to the point of driving him mad, he couldn't keep them out, couldn't control them, his brain sending pictures of what it thought he should be seeing until he was so confused he cried. Feeding himself by touch… Recognizing noises, recognizing things by touch only… Keeping from crying out in the middle of the night when he awoke to noises enveloping him that he couldn't identify… It was the only time in his life he'd ever really felt fear and it had become a tangible enemy. Every little worry and fright he'd ever felt had faded into the unimportant. Christie'd been able to do nothing but sit next to him and feel his fear and cry—he'd been able to feel the remnants of tears on her face and her hands every time he'd touched her, until he didn't want to touch her anymore and had withdrawn.

Here in the church, the fear suddenly dissipated. Hope radiated through him and he didn't feel even the barest remnant of a fear. He could fly if he chose. It wasn't coming from him, it was coming from a room full of people hoping for him.

Jim shuddered.

In the hospital he'd finally accepted the fact that it was permanent. That didn't mean he still couldn't hope for a miracle, but he'd finally come to terms with what the doctors were telling him.

The man next to him moved and silence suddenly dropped. A hand was pressed over his face and then he was thrust forward so suddenly he stumbled. When he regained his balance he looked out over the crowd. Nothing had changed. He could hear gasps and sniffling.

"You tried so hard! Why didn't it work? You prayed your hearts out, yet he's still blind. So you see, no one is listening. There are no more miracles."

Jim clenched his jaw and turned toward the man. Was there anything worse than taking hope from people? Oddly, he didn't feel anger for himself, but for all the people who had been duped. He'd already known it was hopeless.

The throng dispersed and Hank lunged to Jim's side protectively.

He fought for coherent thought. "Sir?" Jim asked. He could hear footsteps walking toward the back of the stage. "You're Josiah, right?"

"Sometimes," the man replied, not turning to face Jim, just using the effect of his voice bouncing off the back wall and off the cathedral ceiling to throw a blind man off-balance. "And sometimes I'm just a Messiah."

The footsteps grew faint before Jim managed to move. "What sort of a messiah offers no hope?"

"You missed the first two hours of this meeting. Come next time and you'll see the light." He cleared his throat. "Not literally, of course." And he was gone.

Someone bumped into him as he walked off the stage and Jim suddenly found himself floating again, that fear returning. Unbalanced, lightheaded.

A hand latched onto his elbow and kept him upright, forcing him to move forward through the emptiness.

* * *

"Hey, Jim."

Jim just nodded toward Marty and kept walking down the hall. He stopped in the locker room for some aspirin. He felt… odd. The car ride back with Tom had been quiet, but not exactly comfortable. He missed Karen and wished she'd been there. She'd be able to help him sort out whatever it was he was feeling. Insulted, mocked, pitied…

He didn't want to be an example of anything, much less the example of a person whose life couldn't be complete. Someone who needed a miracle that could never come.

The weirdest part was he wasn't full of rage. He should have been slamming doors and lockers and raging about the injustice of it all.

Because, except for the lack of anger, he felt exactly the same as when he'd first lost his sight. Empty, confused, hopeful. Like he should go get a second opinion, and a third. Most of all, like he wasn't himself and never would be, didn't know who he'd ever been.

He sat down at his desk and just stared into space. He could have been taking notes or e-mailing Karen what happened, keep her up-to-date.

"Okay," Marty said, "what happened?"

"This guy does these marathon speeches," Tom said. "Jim's probably bored out of your mind, right, Jim?"

Jim barely heard him. Tom cleared his throat uncomfortably and Marty's chair creaked in Jim's direction.

"I left and when I got back, he had Jim up on stage and everyone was praying for him."

"Why'd you get up on stage, Jim?"

Jim didn't answer. He could barely form coherent thoughts. He didn't feel sick, just empty. He didn't need food or sleep, didn't feel like a full human anymore. No thoughts, no feelings.

Hank put his head on Jim's knee, but Jim ignored him.

"Okay…" Marty said slowly. "Tom? Care to enlighten me?"

"He's hardly said anything since the meeting ended. All I know is, I'd just got back. The guy watched me all the way through the door, never took his eyes off me," Tom said.

"So what'd he do to you, Jim?" Marty tried again.

Jim didn't answer, still thinking it over himself.

"His proof that there's no longer a God was that he couldn't make Jim see. If the blind can't see and the lame can't walk, you're wasting your time having faith in anything."

"Jim?"

He felt Marty's hand waving in front of his face. He could feel the air moving around it, could smell aftershave and the anti-bacterial soap from the men's room here at the squad. He couldn't get out of his own head, couldn't blink.

"Jim, you know, it's weird enough when you go all thinking on us usually, but this is just creepy."

Someone walked into the squad. Carrying a fresh cup of coffee. Jim could smell it across the room. "What's going on?" Fisk asked.

"Can you go into a coma if you're still awake?" Marty asked.

"Jim?" the lieutenant asked.

Someone smelling of spray paint was half-dragged across the room. Pigeons were landing on the windowsill. He could hear them scratching and cooing. The blind clacked against the glass as the central heating kicked on. Someone dropped a piece of paper in the hallway.

Fisk clapped a hand on Jim's shoulder and Jim blinked. The room was completely silent. "Jim, go home. Get some rest."

"Yeah, I'm fine," Jim said, but he stood up, put on his coat, and started to leave. Hank jumped up and ran after him, rubbing against him until Jim found the harness in his hand.

* * *

Christie only waited a moment for the elevator, then dashed for the stairs. It was a long way up, but she couldn't wait any longer. She kicked off her high heels and ran.

Lieutenant Fisk had called her, sounding concerned and asked her to keep an eye on Jim that night. Karen was sick and maybe he was, too. He'd barely said a word since he'd gotten back from interviewing some guy about the case. Christie knew before Fisk said it, that wasn't like Jimmy. If he talked to someone about a case, even if he didn't learn anything useful, he would talk it over and over, speculating on every tiny thing.

Panting, she threw open the door to the apartment, making sure to lock it behind her.

"Jimmy?" she called.

There was no answer. He probably should have beaten her home, though. She was sure it had taken her too long to get there.

He was sitting on the couch, staring straight head. She rushed over and felt his forehead.

Jimmy jerked back and grabbed the TV remote, turning it on.

"Are you okay?" Christie asked.

He upped the volume on the commercial.

She stepped back. He hadn't looked over at her, just stared ahead. His jaw muscles were clenched tight, one of his hands in a fist.

"Jimmy?" she tried again, quieter, and ran a hand along the hair at the back of his neck.

Again, he jerked out of her grasp, but stayed on the couch.

Was he still mad about that morning? There were things she just didn't want to talk about, their date being one of them. She'd much rather pretend everything had been great the whole time. She'd spent three days with her husband, something she might have killed for a year ago. How could she tell him she hadn't enjoyed every second? She couldn't worship him like she had before she found out about the affair. She knew now that he wasn't perfect. She just had to accept that. He didn't need to know any of that.

She grabbed the remote out of his hand and turned off the TV. "Jimmy, look at me," she ordered.

His head snapped up, he stood, reached out and grabbed the remote before she had a second to back away. He threw the remote violently against the wall, then stood there, looking down on her.

Christie stared back. For a second she thought he could see, the way he'd snatched back the remote, but in the silence, she saw his eyes shift, almost imperceptibly, outside her own gaze. "What's going on?" she asked, keeping her voice level. She'd spent the past year learning to keep emotion out of her voice the same way Jimmy kept his face unreadable.

He ignored her and sat back down on the couch.

Christie shivered in the silence, then called Dr. Galloway. She made an appointment, promising she would get him down there that evening, even as she wasn't sure how to get Jimmy to speak or move.

She climbed up next to him on the couch but didn't touch him. "Honey, your lieutenant called. What happened today?"

Jim didn't look over at her, but said, "Why'd you call Galloway?" He finally blinked.

Christie's mouth dropped a smidgen. She hadn't thought he'd be able to hear that.

* * *

Jim felt like he was fighting himself, like he was locked inside his head with all his thoughts and all his impulses. He could hear, but he couldn't respond. He still didn't know how he'd gotten home. The subway itself had been so loud he'd spent the whole ride pressed back in a seat, wondering why he couldn't see anyone.

It wasn't until he was back home on the couch that he realized he was blind. His brain felt like it was reliving that moment he found out, that horror and anger. Yet he was still functional, able to get around and do things.

There'd been a dog. It had pressed up against his legs a couple times and he'd wanted it to go away, but every time he opened his mouth to banish the dog, he'd hear a car or a truck go barreling down the street. The dog must have been like some sort of guardian angel.

If he was going to die, it wasn't going to be by throwing himself under a bus. He needed to talk to Christie first.

And she came home, despite the fight that morning and all the terrible things he'd ever subjected her to, she still came home.

He found he couldn't say a word. He wanted to ask her so many things, but the words wouldn't come out.

He heard her talking to him, but he was too wrapped up in his own thoughts, all the things he'd wanted to ask her for years. He wanted to ask why she'd stayed after Anne, especially since she obviously couldn't forgive him. He wanted to ask why she'd stayed after the shooting, when she'd always worried about his job, fought him about spending all his time and energy on the job. He wanted to ask if she still looked the same, after a year and a half. He wondered if he still looked the same. He could feel creases in his face that had deepened, and the scar at his temple, but other than that, had either of them changed yet? He'd told someone, he couldn't focus on who at the moment, that when he met people from before, he just pictured them the way they had been last time he saw them. How pathetic was that? People changed. It was ridiculous to try to pretend they hadn't.

"Why'd you call Galloway?" he found himself asking. He hadn't been paying much attention to her, and that's not really what he wanted to know. He reached out with both hands and ran them over her face, feeling as tears suddenly welled up in her eyes and her bottom lip trembled. She felt the same, but there were so many imperceptible things that he wouldn't be able to feel—

Her lips were on his, trembling and salty with tears. She had pulled him closer and kissed him, hard enough he had felt her teeth press through her lips. It took a moment, but he finally found the strength to kiss her back.

* * *

Jimmy pulled back and Christie found her hands hovering in mid-air by his face. She touched him and he cupped his hands back around her face. The look in his eyes had changed.

He kissed her tenderly a second, then pulled away again, looking lost. "I'd thought I was over it," he said quietly.

"Over what?" She sat beside him on the couch, curled around him, holding him close. He was shaking, just a little.

He didn't answer right away. "The anger. The helplessness." He shook his head. "It was like I was back in the hospital, and I was blind and that was it, like I was drowning in all the things I couldn't see."

Christie remembered the times, how she'd walk in and find her husband near tears, unable to comprehend the finality. "You aren't dead," she told him now like she had then.

"This morning, why'd you get so mad?"

Christie wanted to escape, but she didn't want to let him go. She stayed quiet.

"Christie?" He paused. "I asked what happened this weekend."

She bit her lip and buried her face in his neck. He turned around, reversing their positions so he was the one holding her. "You asked me to forgive you," she said, her voice cracking. She didn't raise her head, just spoke into his shoulder. "So I lied and said I did."

Jimmy's body tensed momentarily, his grip on her tightening. "So that whole bit about the therapist?"

"I lied."

"You didn't go see anyone?"

"No."

Jimmy sighed and squeezed her tight. "Can you forgive me? Please? It was nice, like we were married again. I really liked it. I liked who I was when I was with you."

She sniffed. "I'll try."

"Really?"

"Yes. Really. This time, I promise."


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

"The power of suggestion can be very dangerous," Galloway said.

Jim nodded. He had just finished explaining what he remembered from that morning, how empty he'd felt, how utterly blind, how he'd been paralyzed.

Galloway had shifted a few things to get him in because of the urgency of Christie's call. Even if Fisk hadn't called and asked him to talk to someone, even if Christie hadn't called Galloway herself, Jim would have made the appointment. He had things he didn't understand, like what had happened at the church that morning. It was early evening, scant hours since he'd talked to Josiah Wilkins, but it could have been weeks. Jim was already exhausted, but he tuned his attention to Galloway as he never had before.

"What do you think happened?" Galloway asked.

"I don't know."

"Some people are very persuasive."

"I'd been listening to that guy talk for hours and it fascinated me, all the horrible things he was making sound good, all the good things that were bad."

"And?"

"And I started thinking how Christie was probably going to leave me after our fight that morning because I couldn't leave well enough alone.

"And I started thinking she shouldn't have stayed with a guy who couldn't see her.

"And then I started thinking about how things were falling apart on the case and in the squad, all because I can't see. I can't protect my witnesses. I can't ID people. Marty saw that, that's probably why he started questioning me again. And with Karen gone… And Fisk telling me I had to be careful I didn't jeopardize the lives of anyone else…" Jim trailed off. Everything had been compounding that morning even before he got up on that stage and the blindness had closed in around him.

"Jim, you're a good cop. It doesn't matter that you're blind."

"Without Karen, I'm helpless."

"Without Karen, there's someone else. Yes, you need help, but she doesn't do everything for you. You told me before sometimes her descriptions of the crime scenes leave a little to be desired."

"I rely on her too much."

"You need help now, but you're _not_ helpless, remember that."

Jim sighed. "Sometimes it feels like it." He felt like he was back at that place, the edge of that abyss in the hospital, when someone had come in and told him he was verging on depression. It had shocked him then, and now, to find himself back there—he'd been fine yesterday. Was it all because of that morning? Could one man say something so profound that it could push someone over the edge?

"I don't know what happened between you and Detective Russo, but it'll probably blow over. It probably has nothing to do with you being blind."

"Then why's he questioning my ability—"

"Because that's the only way he knows to get to you. It sounded to me like he had accepted you as a detective. He's not going to be able to forget that." Galloway shifted in the big chair. "As for the lieutenant pulling you aside, maybe you need to be reminded to be careful."

"I was careful. I didn't—"

"Did he know that for sure?"

"No…" Jim shook his head. "So this morning?" he asked.

"Jim, you can deny it all you want, but when people talk, you listen," Galloway said. "You actually listen, even when you don't want to hear it. That's part of what makes you a good detective."

"I know you're not suggesting I stop listening, so what are you trying to tell me?"

"When it comes to other people, you can weigh the truth and decide what you want to believe. But when it comes to your own life, that's up to you. I've told you before, you need to decide for yourself who you are."

"You need to check your report? Forget my name already?" Jim joked. He'd heard Galloway before, but he'd never been able to answer the question.

"Jim," Galloway said, "you need to decide what defines you."

Jim cocked his head to the side, waiting.

"What do you want people to think first when they see you? The blindness can either be everything, or it can just be a part of your life. That's up to you."

Jim shook his head, ready to argue.

"It can, Jim. With the people you know. It all depends on your attitude. Russo, the lieutenant, your wife, they can either see you first as a blind man, or they can see you as Jim Dunbar."

Jim bit his lip. "I've gotta be honest, doc, I'm starting to forget who that is."

"You need to take time, re-evaluate. You can't just keep running in place or you'll end up in a hole."

Jim leaned back to think it over. What defined him?

Stop fighting everyone. Relax.

Relax, that's what DeLana had told him.

He used to be able to relax. What had happened?

If he stopped fighting the blindness, if he stopped fighting Christie…

He cracked his neck. Those were two things he could work on. He'd already mostly accepted being blind. Maybe if he could accept help once in a while, let the other detectives know when he wasn't infallible. He had told Marty he considered Karen and he to be a team effort. He could give that a try.

And he could let Christie be part of the team again. It wasn't just his decision about their marriage—it was up to both of them.

* * *

Jim remembered one time the blindness had defined him. It had been so overwhelming, when he first found out. Stuck in that hospital, no escape. He couldn't hide, couldn't think, could only stare and say, this isn't happening. He hadn't been able to break free. This is me, this is what it's going to be like forever and ever, completely empty, completely helpless, he'd kept thinking. He couldn't even walk to the bathroom on his own. He had a head injury to boot, almost no balance, couldn't come to terms, wouldn't take it slow. Kept thinking, if I could get to the roof, I'd throw myself off. If I could get to the street, I'd throw myself in front of a bus. If I could find the medication cart, I'd take it all. He hadn't been able to come up with a way to even kill himself, so pathetic, so utterly helpless.

And he'd had so little time alone to think. You'd think, being in the hospital, that you'd have all this time, but as soon as he was out of ICU, he'd been flooded with guests. People from the squad, from different precincts, people he knew and those he didn't. Well-wishers who didn't know what they were talking about. That's why the comment from Midnight Matheson had hit him so hard, that hatred of well-wishers. He knew what Bo had meant. They came to him, two at a time, three at a time, like a Dr. Seuss novel, all these people shuffling past in the dark.

Good job.

You'll be up and around in no time.

The squad's not the same without you.

Get well soon.

We all miss you.

Tough break, but you'll be okay.

You're a survivor.

Lucky you.

And they'd all introduce themselves, people he'd known for so many years as a cop would come up to his bedside like he was comatose, and they'd say, "Hi, how's it going, oh, by the way, this is Richard Watson, remember me?"

Jim wanted to punch them. Of course he knew, how much of an invalid did they think he was? Did they think he was brain damaged? Had amnesia?

Get well soon? You'll be okay? What the fk did they know?

Jim wouldn't even look at them. He'd barely listen. He was tired, this wasn't real. These people wouldn't be part of his life anymore once he got out of the hospital because he wouldn't get well soon, wasn't okay. Sadly, not brain damaged, so he could think and feel everything.

He wanted them to go away, not see him like this. But on the other hand, if they weren't around, it would really hit him that he wasn't a cop anymore. He wanted to make the best of the time he had left, but he couldn't react, could barely talk because he couldn't think.

Terry had visited only once that Jim was aware of. He'd been nervous, hadn't even taken a seat. Jim had just stared at him, couldn't believe he was there. Terry'd mumbled some things, but wasn't there long, probably couldn't handle seeing Jim's blank stare.

After he'd left, Jim had wanted to throw things and scream, but his body wouldn't take action. Knowing Terry was up, walking around…

Walter Clark had stopped by, a bright spot, talking more about cases they were working and about his family, not bringing up the past or the bank or the future. Just giving Jim time to reflect. Jim had been thankful for Walter's visits, short as they were, as the other man was always rushing off in search of more evidence. Walter had been one of the few people who didn't seem unnerved by Jim, the way he looked, the way he didn't know what to say anymore.

A few other cops he'd known for years had taken Walter's lead, and Jim had relished those moments. He listened raptly to talk of cases, and soon found he was able to contribute to conversations, bounce ideas back and forth again, like everything was okay.

Someone from the press had snuck in once. That had gone badly. He hadn't been ready to deal, couldn't figure out this whole not seeing thing. And there was someone, sitting in the visitor's chair, telling him what a gorgeous day it was, that the sun was shining through the window and wasn't he glad to be alive. He hadn't been able to answer. The man, so chipper and upbeat, Jim had been sure he was part of the hospital staff, come once again to tell him how they'd help him to get his life back on track and how he'd learn to manage.

The guy had asked him, how do you feel, knowing you saved all those men at the bank? How does it feel to be a hero? What are you going to do now? How's your lovely wife taking it? Can you imagine living your life as a blind man?

Then Jim had heard the unmistakable scratching of a pen on paper.

"You're writing this down?" he'd asked.

"Boy, you don't miss anything," the guy had said.

Jim had realized the man had never introduced himself, just sat down and started chatting. Jim had been trying to be polite, and most of the time he'd just stared straight ahead and shrugged, not really giving an answer, but he knew the press would run with it, whatever little they got or didn't get, they'd find ways around it. The wounded hero, sitting shell-shocked—

Jim had lunged out during the man's next question. He'd actually jumped from the bed, pulling the IV from the back of his hand, landing badly and using the chair as leverage as he grabbed the guy, embarrassed as he had to fumble for a proper hold. The man had cried out, but Jim had grabbed him up, made them both stand. He'd fumbled again, spinning the guy around, couldn't even imagine the look of horror and concentration on his own face as he stood with the man pressed against his chest, one arm around his throat, his own eyes wide. "Head for the door."

The man had almost bolted, but Jim held him in check. He couldn't throw the man bodily into the hallway if he ran away first, and Jim terribly needed to throw someone out.

Footsteps were running down the linoleum-covered hallway, alerted by the cry, but Jim kept on his quest. He felt the doorjamb graze his shoulder and he let up the pressure on the journalist's throat and pushed, still weak from being unconscious and from the medications, but even so, he'd overbalanced the man, heard him stagger across the hall and smack lightly against the wall to keep his balance. It sounded like he dropped his notebook.

"If you print a word about me, I will sue you," Jim had threatened. "Don't come back."

"Detective!" a nurse cried. It sounded like she had a whole slew of orderlies with her, ready to restrain him.

But he was already lightheaded. He hadn't stood much recently, was still medicated. Only the adrenaline had gotten him this far. He slumped against the wall, holding his hand over the bleeding IV site.

"Detective, what happened?" the nurse asked.

"Keep the press out. Didn't we tell you that?" Jim turned on her, straightening up to his full height, hoping he looked intimidating and not just sickly.

The nurse rushed over and grabbed his arm, but Jim never would have admitted he was grateful for the support. He shook her off. He hadn't heard the journalist move and wasn't about to let anyone see Detective James Dunbar in a weak moment.

"Get him out of here," he ordered and turned back to his room. He took a step, reached out, groping for the door, but not sure which way it opened. The nurse rushed forward and closed it for him with a satisfying thud. Jim had almost collapsed on the floor as soon as it was closed. He felt weak and disoriented, couldn't remember which direction the bed was. Or the window the reporter had told him about with the sun—

"Is the sun really out?" he'd asked, finally taking the nurse's shoulder and shuffling forward until she sat him on the bed.

It wasn't until she left, closing the door against the world, that Jim had been able to play back the situation. Like listening to play-by-play on the radio.

He'd forced himself to imagine the players. A big burly reporter, himself weak and confused, scared even, only having known he was blind for two days, the nurse, light playing through her hair as she sat him gently on the bed, reassured him it would never happen again, then jabbed a new IV through the skin on the back of his hand, making him wince because she hadn't warned him she even possessed a new needle.

He'd finally been able to run it all through, from the initial realization, where it felt like he was coming out of a coma, to the end, shuffling back to the bed, utterly spent.

He hadn't shuffled with the reporter. It had almost been like walking with a perp in front of him, controlling the other man's movements, Jim had been able to walk normally, even unsure of his destination. Cop instincts, they'd kicked in, saved him a rotten article. Cop instincts, they'd shown him he could move freely, could control himself and his situation. He didn't feel so helpless. Almost grateful to be alive. Almost smiling, imagining the look on the reporter's face when Jim attacked him.

It was a good memory, that first smile.

* * *

Jim had never decided whether or not to go back to Morrissey's. Yeah, Steve had caught him, invited him back. Even though Steve had never liked him.

It made Jim wonder what the other guys thought of him. Before. After.

It was difficult having a Before. So many people seemed to make it through life without being compared to an earlier incarnation of themselves, like he'd been two different people.

He felt that way, though, especially around Christie.

The Jim Before, he used to look on him as the epitome of who he was supposed to be. But when Steve told him he hadn't liked that guy… A bit of himself had skewed. Christie hadn't liked that guy sometimes, either. Anne learned to hate him.

Jim Before started losing some of his luster. Jim Before was a womanizer, a jerk.

Jim Now had a second chance. He could change. People would say it was because he didn't have a choice, because he was blind, but he would know it was partly the near-death experience, the chance to re-evaluate his life, the fact that he'd been given something a lot of people never had—time. Time to think and reassess.

That's what Galloway had told him he had to do. He'd reinvented Old Jim when he went back to work. Trying his darnedest to be the same man he had before.

Now he thought, maybe that was a mistake. He could use this, his chance to improve, not his chance to be the same.

Galloway had said Jim had become obsessed with his blindness. Keeping it from Christie. Living with it himself. Compensating. Proving to everyone it didn't matter. It did matter. Jim knew that; he had things he couldn't do anymore, things he had to do differently. But it was up to him to decide how much it mattered.

This was why he'd been so affected by what Uncle Josiah had said, because he still hadn't integrated the blindness into his life, was always fighting against it.

It wasn't who he was. He needed to figure out who he would be with Christie, the squad, his friends. Because he wasn't going to let the blindness define him.

He hadn't been back to Morrissey's partly because he wasn't sure he had a place there anymore, partly because he wasn't sure what the guys thought of him. It would be a small step, going back, but he had to do it. Even if Cal and Fos and Steve weren't his friends anymore, that didn't mean it had anything to do with him not being able to see, and that didn't mean he would never have friends of his own, as Jim Now.

He forced himself to head over. It wasn't like him to be nervous, but then again, it couldn't be wrong to feel apprehensive about re-evaluating his life. It was a big step to take.

Except for whatever he'd done to piss off Marty, Jim felt he'd pretty much earned his place at the squad. The other detectives respected him and knew he could do his job. He'd been lucky to fall into an open-minded partner like Karen. And even if Marty was going to keep riding his ass all the time, Jim would use that as a gauge to make sure he never got lax. Tom and he had formed an easygoing relationship; Jim felt he could relax around Tom. Even the lieutenant had accepted Jim, treated him the same as any other cop.

Christie and Jim were going to re-evaluate their lives—together. They'd promised. They wouldn't try to do it alone.

Now all Jim had left to figure out was who he was outside his job and wife. Who Jim Now was when he was alone, when he had time to kick back.

Christie'd nearly fainted when he said he was going out, that he had to think. After the day he'd had, and everything he'd put her through, she wanted him to stay home. But he'd sat down with her and explained, a little. She wished him luck.

He shivered as his hand touched the cold metal handle at Morrissey's. The moment of truth. It was getting late, but, he hoped, at least one of the guys was bound to be there.

Stale and fresh smoke escaped out the door. Glasses clinked and people laughed and chatted, yelling over each other to be heard.

Jim headed into the warmth and turned right for the bar.

"The usual, Jim?" Gray asked.

"Yeah, thanks." He leaned up against the bar, took a deep breath to inquire about his old friends.

"Foster and Steve are in the corner," Gray offered casually.

"Which corner?"

"Back. Left. Under the big screen and that picture of the fish."

Jim nodded. The picture was of a pike or a musky, Jim wasn't enough of a fish aficionado to know the difference, a huge behemoth with teeth the size of anchors, oddly distorted by the artist. They looked like they were tinged with blood, making it the talk of all the people when they started getting drunk. It was a hideous picture, but chances were, it would be there forever.

A bottle clinked onto the counter and Jim reached out. "Thanks." He left the bills on the counter and turned. He ordered Hank to move forward, then right, listening carefully through the din for voices he recognized.

"Hey, Jim," Fos said.

Jim measured the distance, estimating it to be about five more feet and just to the right. The tables weren't set up in a perfect grid, so he'd nearly gotten disoriented on the way back as Hank wove in and out.

"Hey, guys," Jim said. "Mind if I join you?"

A pause. Fos probably checking with Steve to make sure there wasn't going to be any conflict.

"Sure," Steve said.

Hank stopped him at the table and Jim let go of his harness so he could have a free hand. "There a chair…?"

"Yeah, just to… uh, your left," Fos said.

Jim switched the beer to his right hand and reached out. His hand encountered the table first, so he used it as a guide, sliding it along.

"Almost there," Fos said.

"I got it," Jim assured them and a moment later his hand touched the chair.

Safely seated, Jim set the beer down and shrugged out of his coat. He leaned his head to the side, reveling in the small crack his neck gave out.

No one moved. A silent corner of a bar, it felt strange.

Jim reached up and removed the sunglasses, thinking maybe they would be a barrier to his quest. "So…" he said as he set the glasses on the table by his beer.

"I dunno, Jim, you kinda always dominated the conversations before, you know?" Steve said.

Jim grinned sheepishly and glanced down. "So I did. Sorry about that."

Silence again.

"What, you actually want to hear me talk about every case I've been working on? Come on, it's been a long week." He gestured at them to carry on, rolling his hand through the air. "You don't need me to entertain you."

There was a small pause before Foster shifted in his chair and asked, "So you really don't carry a gun anymore?"

Jim grimaced. "What would I do with it?" he asked, quoting Marty's favorite line. "So, uh, either of you ever remarry?"

"Nope," Fos said. "You get a divorce yet?"

"Nope."

"Think about it."

"We were. We decided against it."

"You want me to talk to her? Five minutes with Foster's charm, she'll be out of your hair for good."

"Thanks, but no."

"She still as good-looking—shit, sorry."

Jim laughed. "She is. Don't sweat it."

"You're just going to laugh?"

He shrugged. "I guess so."

* * *

"The last time I saw a guy with that many bottles of beer in front of him, he was singing "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall," and pretending he was a baritone," Cal said, coming up behind Jim. "Oh, wait, that was you."

Jim had been staring at the wall, trying to remember every detail of the fish picture, even though Fos and Steve had assured him he was lucky he couldn't see it and that's why they let him sit across from the damn picture. He blinked and glanced over his shoulder, but he could already hear Cal moving across the table, so he turned back. He gestured and said, "Have a seat." He listened, but didn't hear anything. They were in the carpeted section of the bar and it was pretty noisy behind him, obscuring small things like a moving chair. "Steve and Fos just left. I wasn't drinking alone."

"No drowning your sorrows tonight?"

"No need." Jim remembered how Cal had found him one night, trying to drink enough beer to send himself to oblivion. He'd refused anything stronger, though he couldn't remember why. Maybe because he really hadn't wanted to get drunk, just wanted to sit there all night drinking beer.

It had been right after he'd broken up with Anne. Before Christie found out and threatened to leave. He'd really wanted time to just re-evaluate the whole marriage thing then. He'd broken it off with Anne because of Christie. He was married, couldn't have a girlfriend. But why had he wanted a different girl in the first place? What had happened between him and Christie?

He'd started drinking as soon as he realized just what he could have messed up, how badly he'd acted.

And he vaguely remembered now, halfway through the night, he'd fallen back in love with Christie. He'd remembered something. Promptly forgot it the next morning when he woke up with his head pounding, but for that moment, he'd been totally in love with his wife.

Things had gone to hell shortly after, but for that moment…

"Steve said it was all water under the bridge?"

"Yeah."

"We were wondering if you were ever going to show back up."

"Here I am." Jim put out his hands. He could practically feel the cigarette smoke with his fingertips.

"Your wife still afraid of dogs?"

Jim furrowed his brow. "I forgot about that."

Cal laughed. "Here. I bought you a beer." He slid it across the table until it touched the back of Jim's hand.

"Thanks." Jim took the bottle. "I can't believe I forgot. How'd you remember?"

"I'd always hoped you'd divorce her so I could have a chance. Things okay between you two?"

Jim smiled. "You're married, don't go putting any moves on my wife."

"Just keeping my options open."

Jim shrugged. "Things have been better. But they're okay."

"I still remember you telling me about that trip… If my wife and I—"

"Trip?"

"Yeah—"

Jim remembered and didn't hear another thing Cal said. He'd forgotten the trip. It had been so out of character for Christie, and for him, too. Relaxing. He'd been supposed to meet an old army buddy upstate, the middle of summer, hotter than heck. He and Christie hadn't been even engaged yet and couldn't get enough time together, so he'd invited her along to make a weekend of it, rented a little cabin.

They'd got in a fight about directions or something, not having enough matches, needing hair spray to be prepared, something like that. It had turned into a snipe fest, then there'd been the flat tire.

It was an old country road. No spare tire, no traffic, no cell phone service. Jim wasn't about to leave Christie there; he was a cop, knew what happened to single women alone in the middle of nowhere. But she didn't want to walk, it was too far, she didn't have the right shoes, and it was sooo hot.

They'd yelled, argued. Stopped speaking. And in the sudden silence, Jim had heard running water from a nearby creak.

He dragged her over, playfully threatened to throw her in to cool her off. They'd made up, kissed, walked hand in hand along the creek bed until they'd found a lake complete with a tire swing. They'd both gotten rid of their inhibitions, shed their clothes, dove into the water and played like children for hours. Christie'd dunked him. He jumped from the swing into the lake.

They'd spend the night sleeping in the grass next to the car until the owner of the land drove by the next day and gave them a lift.

Peaceful. They'd had peace.

They'd talked a little, about the future, what they wanted in life. They'd watched the stars, saw a couple fall. Christie had said how sad that was, they'd been there for millions of years, but she felt lucky to have seen it at the end. Jim hadn't told her it was just a tiny meteor piece that had just burned up, nothing too special. Christie had been to college and knew all sorts of little tidbits. She'd probably even taken astronomy, just preferred the romantic view of things.

"I don't want things to end between us," Jim had said.

"Then they won't. As long as we don't want them to, they don't have to."

Jim had taken her hand, linked her fingers in between his, keeping them each safe.

"But if it does, I'd want it to end beautifully," Christie said. "Shouldn't that be our goal in life? To just live the best we can, so even when we die, it's beautiful, not sad, not unfulfilled."

Jim had stared at the stars. He wasn't much of one for beautiful. Romantic. He liked to think of the grand scale of the stars, how far away they were, how much work and light and power they had to reach even this tiny planet. Jim liked to look up and feel small because when he looked down, he felt significant. He liked the contrast, the conflict it brought him. He started thinking how he'd want to bring out the next bad guy he caught, set him down to look at the stars, and say, look at how insignificant your actions are, now you're going to jail so you can be miserable the rest of your days and never see this again.

Christie had turned and stroked a finger down the side of his face, startling him from his reverie. "You're beautiful," she said. "The way you help people. You're not selfish. I like that about you."

Jim had turned to look at her in the dark, barely a shadow in the grass. He could feel her hair spilling over his shoulder, tickling his neck. He could smell her, smell the grass, how natural it all was. Feel the lake water evaporating. They didn't get this in the city. He'd never been much of a fan of camping. But this, lying there looking at the stars with Christie lying on his shoulder, this he could get used to. The moon was barely enough to blot out a star or two. "You're already beautiful," he'd said.

Jim was flooded with other memories triggered by that first one. Christie smiling an honest smile, not at all with a hint of manipulation like he'd been seeing lately. Christie dragging him to a benefit concert and teaching him about all the different instruments, showing him how to appreciate the music, then feeding him baklava all night while they chatted with the ambassador of a small country in Africa. Jim had been surprised to find that, underneath the upstanding exterior, the ambassador had just been a regular guy.

Christie was great when she relaxed. When he relaxed. With the stress of the past year or so, they'd both been so uptight.

Hank whined and nudged Jim's foot.

"Oh," Jim said. "I'd better take Hank out." He finished his beer and stood up.

"I'll come." Cal stood. Jim listened to him slide back into his coat as Jim did the same.

Jim turned and led the way to the door.

"Night, Jim, night, Cal," Gray called.

"Night," Jim said with a wave. He pushed open the door and shivered. Hank shook and Jim leaned down to make sure the dog wasn't covered in peanut shells again.

"So," Cal said, "you need the dog to, uh…"

"He helps me get around. Or I use my cane." The words came easier each time he explained. He could notice that now that he was looking. My cane, I'm blind, my dog, where's a chair, how do I get there, what's this? He still didn't like having to rely on people to tell him things he'd always just been able to see for himself, but he could appreciate it when people were willing to give him the answers. "But I still have to know where I'm going."

"You're quieter," Cal said.

"Yeah?"

"Is it weird? Not being able to see anything?"

"Weird?" Jim smiled. "I guess you could call it that. But I can manage." Manage? He'd said that before, heard other blind people in rehab say it. He wanted to do more than just manage. He wanted to kick back and enjoy life. Not spend all his time worrying or fighting. He wasn't going to just "manage" anymore.

"You are quieter, you know that?"

"I guess I'm trying to figure some things out still. It's been a long week."

"You can really, you know, do your job and everything? Even though you can't see?"

Jim turned the corner into the small park and stopped on the grass. "Cal, there's a few things I can't—"

"Like, you weren't just not talking because you needed to concentrate too hard on getting around?"

"No," Jim said, a little confused.

"'Cause I've been waiting for a big Jim Dunbar story and you can barely even say hello."

Jim smiled to himself. "We're in the middle of a huge case at work. The boring stuff where we just talk to people and make phone calls all day. You always told me that was too boring, so—"

"Are you saying you used to just lie to me?"

"No—maybe once or twice I embellished a little. But I'd only tell you stuff when it was all over."

"So you didn't lie to me?"

Jim shook his head. He hadn't cared enough to bother lying to the guys. Spending all that energy coming up with stories, he'd saved that for Christie. He only lied to the people he cared about. He bit his lip. He'd have to change that.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

Jim was exhausted when he got to work the next morning, but overall he felt good. Things were good with Christie for the first time in years, he'd decided he didn't give a damn about what was wrong with Marty. He had a job to do and he was going to do it, then he was going to go home to his beautiful wife.

Hank was fairly strutting through the precinct. Jim had apologized to him, too. He knew he'd worried the dog yesterday, he also apologized for occasionally resenting Hank's help in the past. There was nothing he could do about the past, but from then on, Galloway was right, he could be a better man than before.

Hank sneezed on Marty's chair as they passed.

"Gesundheit, Mutt," Marty said spitefully.

"Good morning to you, too, Marty," Jim said.

"Jim!" Tom exclaimed.

He looked up from folding his coat across the back of his chair. "Morning, Tom."

"We didn't think you were coming in."

Jim checked his watch. "Sorry I'm late." He hadn't gone to bed at a decent hour, then Christie'd let him sleep in, and when he finally got up, he'd found her waiting for him in the shower.

"Are you sure you should be here?" Tom asked more quietly, coming over.

"I do work here." He cocked his head to the side, listening. "Karen still sick?"

"Yeah. She's been calling all morning—"

"I'm a half hour late—"

"_I_ was an hour early. _And_ she called all last night to see how you were."

Jim frowned. "She never called me."

"You couldn't call us to let us know you were okay?" Tom asked, sounding hurt. "You had us freaked out."

Jim tried to smile. "Sorry, Tom." He wasn't going to admit he was still pretty freaked out himself over what had happened. He'd never thought he'd be that open to suggestion, that a few choice words could alter everything he felt.

"Dunbar!" Fisk yelled. "My office."

Jim sidestepped Tom and walked over to Fisk's office slowly.

"Shut the door," Fisk ordered.

Jim knew there was a wedge propping the heavy door open. He felt along the bottom with his foot until he found it and dislodged it.

Fisk was quiet, so Jim pulled one of the chairs up to the desk and sat, waiting. "What the hell happened?" the lieutenant finally asked.

Jim shook his head. "A lot of things happened. And… if you ask Dr. Galloway… they left me "vulnerable to suggestion."" Jim grimaced. There was no way Fisk was just going to let this one slide, not after their conversation about him being extra careful.

The office was quiet a minute. Jim kept his gaze even at the boss. If he had to defend himself, he wasn't going to back down. It was like the first day, trying to convince everyone he was fit for duty.

"So, this guy…" Fisk finally said. "Tom said it was Uncle Josiah, right?"

Jim nodded. "Right. That much he admitted to. He also told me he's like a messiah."

"A messiah?" Fisk cleared his throat. "What's this guy's story?"

Jim looked down a second. "I really wish I could have talked to him longer. All we know for sure is he runs some church—"

"Tom told me there were a couple hundred people in there. They were just listening to this guy? For hours?"

"Yeah."

"So you think he's like hypnotist or something? After what happened to you?"

Jim shrugged. "I can't say for sure. But I can tell you, definitely, it will never happen again."

"You worked it all out with the shrink?"

"Absolutely. We know what happened and—"

"You're not open to suggestion anymore?"

"No."

"Good. Because Tom said, if he hadn't been using all his energy thinking about his next restroom break, he was worried about what might have happened."

Jim burst out laughing. "You're joking, right?" He didn't feel the tension in the room anymore or the need to prove he was fit for duty.

"I don't joke, Jim. You should know that by now."

Jim tried to hide his smile behind his hand.

The boss got up and opened the door. "Selway, get in here."

Before the door shut, Jim heard Marty say, "Tom, you really should have kept a better eye on him." Jim grimaced.

"Pull up a chair," Fisk ordered. "Let's compare notes on this guy."

"Boss, I…" Tom started awkwardly. "About what happened…"

"Yeah, I heard what Russo said," Fisk barked. "Ignore him. He wasn't there. I want everything you can give me on this guy. What's his game?"

"I'd say he almost has cult status," Tom said. "All those people were just tuned in."

"The weird thing was, I don't think it mattered much what he said. He'd go out of his way to prove a point, then contradict himself a minute later and prove the opposite. No one questioned any of it."

"By the end, when he had Jim up on stage… He'd just been telling them there was no God, then he asked them to pray, and they did it."

Jim wrinkled his nose, remembering it all, every word, every sensation. "You asked if he was a hypnotist, but I don't think so. I remember everything, but when you're hypnotized, don't you have these big gaps in your memory?"

"So why'd he call you onstage?" Fisk asked.

Jim shrugged.

"And why'd you go?"

Jim shrugged again. "It's not like I had to. It was like I wanted to get up there and prove him wrong." He shook his head slowly, thinking it over. "I wanted to show all those people that everything he'd been saying was a load of bull and they shouldn't listen to him. I just didn't like the guy."

"No?"

"But he was very charismatic. Could have run for politics."

"So why didn't he?"

Jim leaned back in his chair. "Tom?"

"No idea," Tom said.

"Me, either," Jim agreed. "I don't think he was doing this because he had a calling from God."

"You think maybe he's swindling all these people?" Fisk asked.

"I don't know. Maybe."

"And the connection to the case?"

"Samantha," Jim said. "She must have been part of this group."

"And the guy on the roof," Tom said.

"What'd he say? He was going to save the world "just like Uncle Josiah"?"

"Something like that."

"So his reach stretches far and wide."

"You think he had anything to do with any of the murders? Personally?" Fisk asked.

"I dunno. Artez was pretty adamant about him being a good guy. But the kids… they could go see him until they got old enough to ask questions. The oldest daughter said she didn't remember him."

"And the mom?"

"Swears she never met the man."

"You think," Tom started, suddenly hitting Jim in the shoulder. Jim turned and Tom continued, "That whole thing with the male babies? He was the one who gave Samantha insurance as her husband, but you said Samantha couldn't get married or something because she gave birth to a male baby. You think he was looking for an heir to the throne?"

"Maybe Uncle Josiah really is the dad?"

"Unless you believe in spontaneous spiritual conception."

"Can we find this guy?" Fisk asked. "Get a paternity test?"

"We'll look around," Tom said.

"Tom, what would he have to gain?" Jim asked.

"If you're starting your own religion, what do you need?"

"Followers? Miracles? A gimmick?"

"And it can't hurt to have a son. People love kids. If your own son worships you, they can't question your motives."

"So Samantha couldn't marry Artez—"

"Because she wouldn't be like the next virgin if she did. Maybe all these kids are Uncle Josiah's—"

"Tom, I doubt he's running a harem."

"Hear me out. Maybe Samantha's the only one who gave him a son."

Jim turned away, thinking.

"Sucks to be her, huh?" Tom asked. "Maybe that's why she got singled out."

"So who killed her?"

"If you started your own religion and proclaimed yourself Messiah, don't you think you'd have a little opposition from the sane people left in the world?"

"So it's sane to commit murder?"

"You always hit where it hurts most."

"You can never protect the one you love…" Jim looked up at Tom. "Let's say she knew they were going to kill her. She didn't want her mom to know where the baby was, so she made a bunch of tapes saying she was okay and had a friend call. That keeps her mom out of danger. The mom's not worried and asking questions. She didn't want her mom even knowing about the baby because chances are, whoever wanted her dead was also after the kid."

"I'd definitely agree that you have to kill the son of the messiah to bring him down a notch."

"So she snuck out while Karen and I were there, leaving her son."

"Thinking he was safe in police custody."

"And if DeLana really didn't have anything to do with this group besides being mixed up with Artez…"

"Then her son would be safe because DeLana wouldn't go back to these people."

"Exactly." Jim ran a hand through his hair.

"What's the connection to the Bartlett boy?" Fisk asked. "Why'd you find Samantha hiding in the house with her dead cousin's body, claiming she didn't know who he was?"

Jim shook his head. "Maybe the cousin had been staying with them, too. Maybe he was like an example for her."

"Then why'd they stay in the house?"

"Afraid to leave?"

"So what's our next move?" Tom asked.

"Look into Uncle Josiah some more," Fisk said. "Somehow he's connected to Robby Mulhaney's son, too. Maybe it is just a whacked out follower trying to stop him."

"In which case, we have hundreds of suspects," Jim said.

"Aw, man," Tom groaned.

Jim stood and pushed his chair back into place. "We got our work cut out for us."

"Ah, Jim…" Fisk said. "Stay in house today."

Jim turned back, having momentarily forgotten he'd been called in for a royal ass chewing. Then he grinned and shrugged. "You want to make sure I don't relapse?"

"I want to make sure you don't hear the word "shish kabob" and start doing the chicken dance," Fisk said dryly.

Jim laughed and briefly flapped his arms like wings as he crossed to the door.

* * *

The phone was ringing as he walked out of Fisk's office and he listened as Marty answered it.

"Jim, it's Karen. She's _wor-ried_ about you," he said with a sarcastic whine.

Jim smiled over at him and said, "Bite me, Marty," then picked up the extension at his desk. At least the silent treatment was over. He handled sniping better than silence, and this probably mean things were well on their way to being back to normal. "Karen," he said.

"Are you okay? What happened?" she asked. "I leave you alone _one_ day and—"

Jim laughed. "And all hell breaks loose. Sorry about that."

"Why didn't you call? I told them to have you call—"

"I just got done talking to the lieutenant."

She was quiet a second. "Oh." She coughed, but it sounded forced, not part of her cold. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah. Let me run this by you." He told her the theory he and Tom had cooked up.

"Or what if it is him?" Karen asked when he was done. "If he was really trying to father a son… maybe he couldn't. Maybe he found out Samantha'd had a kid through someone else."

"So he killed her for being unfaithful. What about everyone else who died?"

"What if he's making suggestions to all these people—go jump off a roof, go kill someone. Sounds like they'd do anything he said. It would really explain the erratic behavior."

"Why would he, though?"

"I dunno. Maybe he's pissed off paying for the poor in his taxes. Maybe he's just crazy."

"Then it's a good thing he's not doing little kids' birthday parties," he said.

"Yeah, go jam this donkey tail up Susie's—"

"Karen," Jim reprimanded, laughing. "You sound like you're feeling better?"

"I'll be back tomorrow."

"Good."

"And you'll be careful?"

"I promise. I'll let you know if anything happens."

* * *

"Now that's a name I haven't heard in years."

Jim's ears pricked up. "Walter! What are you doing here?"

"Just visiting," Walter Clark said, picking his way through the desks.

"Good to see you."

"Did I actually hear you guys say you were looking for a kid named Pipsqueak?"

"Yeah," Tom said. "A kid, or a man."

"Or a beagle," Marty said. "We can't find anything on the guy."

"You're probably not looking back far enough." Walter sat down at Karen's desk, his weight making Karen's normally quiet chair creak like it was on its last legs.

Jim spun his chair and clasped his hands on his chest as he leaned back. "You knew a Pipsqueak?"

"Could be the same guy. Back in the '80's, there was this kid, more an honorary mascot than anything else. We were always looking for Pipsqueak, it was like he was the only lead we'd ever have, only we wouldn't be able to find him."

"He was a kid?"

"Yeah, thirteen, fourteen, somewhere around there. He was in with all these tough guys. Even part of two rival gangs for a while. The kid was amazing. Really smart. Great at hiding. Even when we did find him, he'd only tell us what he wanted. He was a tough nut to crack, shall we say."

"Do you think he's still alive?" Marty asked.

"Undoubtedly. But I bet he doesn't go by Pipsqueak anymore. Everyone has to grow up." Walter stood.

"Hey, Walter," Jim said, leaning forward. "I want to get your thoughts on this."

"Shoot." Walter leaned a hand on the corner of Jim's desk.

"We have several DOAs. We had two families that might be witnesses, but the only thing they could give us was Pipsqueak. Now two of the witnesses are either dead or missing. You think maybe he'd kill someone?"

"Maybe. He wasn't much of a murderer back when we were always dragging him in, but people change, Jim. He always had a chip on his shoulder. He was too short, too smart, too young. But he was never naïve and he was never actually involved in any of the crimes. At least, not that we could connect him to."

"Do you have a name?"

"Nah, it was a long time ago. Even if he had a name in our files, I'd doubt it was his real one. And I doubt he'd be using the same one now. Brilliant kid, cars, stereos, electronics, you name it. Security systems, getting information from people. But we could never pin anything on him."

* * *

It had been a quiet day at work, with Karen gone and Marty barely speaking. They hadn't been able to come up with much on Josiah Wilkins by the end of the day, especially not regarding a criminal history. With Walter's help, they'd started looking into Pipsqueak the possible poisoner, but hadn't yet found anything useful.

Christie wasn't home yet. Jim changed and fed Hank, then pulled out a beer. He pulled a couple Braille practice books off a shelf and cleared the coffee table, then sat on the floor to practice. He'd had so little time to actually sit down and study it, but Christie was right, he'd have to eventually.

A knock on the door startled him. Usually people called up to be buzzed in, so he hoped it was just a neighbor popping by for something. Hank followed him to the door.

"Oh," a male voice said, then it was quiet.

"Oh?" Jim asked, almost smiling. It was amusing when people thought they needed to play the "guess who I am" game. He waited patiently, his hand on the door. He didn't feel threatened at all by the presence in the hallway, so he just waited.

The man cleared his throat. "Is your wife home?"

"No, Clay, she's not." Jim kept the surprise out of his voice and hopefully off his face. This was the last person he'd expected.

"You remember me?" He sounded surprised.

"Well, I'm sure you couldn't forget me," Jim shot back with a little smile, hoping he looked penitent, if not just a little embarrassed, for Clay's sake.

Clay Simmons, his wife's chief editor at the magazine. Jim had been convinced he was a womanizing slime—takes one to know one, right—but now he wasn't so sure. There were a lot of different sides to people.

He cleared his throat again. "I've been trying to call her cell, but she's not answering. So I thought I'd just drop this off. It's on my way."

"What is it?"

"It's not an engagement ring, trust me."

Jim laughed. "Hey, I'm sorry. Truce?"

"Sure. Here."

"Like I said, what is it? Big package? Small? One hand, two hands? Is it heavy?" He played the questions nonchalantly, not wanting to let Clay think he had the upper hand, but letting him know he was just human.

"A few pages of notes for her article."

Jim held out a hand and took the pages in a large envelope.

"And a dress."

Clay draped it over his arm. "I'll give them to her the second she comes in." Jim felt the fabric of the dress, momentarily wondering if it could be some snazzy evening gown and Clay was passing off tickets to a Broadway show with it. But the moment passed—he knew his wife and if Clay was that much of a sleaze, she wouldn't give him the time of day. "Thanks for stopping by."

Clay grunted. "Have a good night."

"You, too." Jim shut the door. He dropped the envelope on the kitchen counter and laid the dress over the back of the bar stool, exploring the short sleeves, belted waist, long skirt. There was nothing scandalous about the dress, not even a plunging neckline.

The front door opened and Jim turned, one hand still on the dress, ready to tell her Clay had just stopped by.

"It's calico," she said.

"What's that?"

"Little squares. The top is calico, the bottom is plain cotton. It twirls if you spin."

"Oh." He nodded. "Clay was here."

"I ran into him on the way up."

"That was a fast meeting."

"We didn't have much to say. He's just my boss."

"Has he been giving you a hard time since the party? You were worried about his good will, so I apologized."

She moved up against him to take the dress, so he pulled back his hand and put his hands on her shoulders. She shrugged. "Everything's been fine. He said he didn't blame you for being a little jealous."

Jim buried his face in the back of her hair. "A _little_ jealous?"

She leaned back in his arms. "I sort of like it when you're jealous. You hadn't been in so long."

Jim squeezed her tightly. "Sorry 'bout that."

"Are you feeling better?" She reached up a hand and fluffed the hair away from his forehead.

"Absolutely."

"You want to stay for dinner?"

He laughed. "You make it sound like an elicit rendezvous. In which case, I'd love to." He turned her around in his arms. "What time's your husband coming home?"

She bristled, stiffening.

"Sht, sorry. Bad joke."

She buried her face in his shoulder and held him tight.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen**

Jim stood in front of the mirror going through the intricate motions of forming his necktie. Christie leaned past him and he moved out of her way.

"What have you got going today?" she asked.

"Same."

"Nothing new?"

He straightened the cuffs of his shirt and she slid his jacket over his shoulders. "Walter was a big help yesterday. He promised to ask around all the old guys he used to work with. This guy couldn't have just disappeared, but why we're looking for him under an old name…" He shrugged. "We'll see."

"Maybe your witness figured it was the least harmful way to get information to you without endangering his life."

Jim moved away from her, sat on the bed and slipped into his shoes. "At least our witness hasn't turned up dead yet."

"Exactly. You should sound happier about that," she teased.

"How'd your article turn out?"

"Fine. I tried on the dress, but it's definitely not my style."

"No?"

"I'm not Donna Reed."

Jim smiled at the mental picture. "I'm glad," he said.

"You don't want me staying home all day making elaborate dinners?"

"Wouldn't suit you."

"It would be hard to be a cop's wife and sit home all day wondering how long until her husband was shot."

"You make it sound like it happens every day." He paused in the doorway of the bedroom, his hand on the doorjamb.

"Don't get shot today, okay?"

Jim smiled. "I promise."

She laughed, the sound enveloping him even across the room. "I'll have to make you promise every day."

He ducked out of the room, calling, "I'll see you later, okay?"

* * *

"Jim!" Tom called.

Jim froze a second, feeling like he was being ambushed, like Tom had been waiting for him.

"Where have you been?"

"I'm early, Tom," he said as he went straight for his desk without stopping in the locker room for once. He sat on the corner, facing the younger detective, waiting. He heard Hank settle down in his usual spot.

"You won't believe this. We finally dug up something on this Pipsqueak."

"Tom, come on, enough suspense."

"I'm getting there. Walter was right. A real brilliant kid. Got into a bit of trouble back in the '80's, but they could never pin anything on him. Learned from some of the shadiest dudes in the city, apparently, but there's really not a lot in the records. He's like the stuff of legends.

"Eventually he got so sick of doing other peoples' dirty work, he broke away and started his own gang—called it the Owls."

"Owls?" Jim asked incredulously.

"Not a very good name, I know. It was either short-lived or it went underground, never really heard anything else about it. But guess what Pipsqueak's real name was?"

Jim shook his head and motioned for Tom to continue.

"Josiah Wilkins."

Jim was glad he was sitting down. "Uncle Josiah, huh?" he finally said, unable to believe it. "So now we have the Owl, and the Pipsqueak—what about the pussycat part?"

"What?"

"The t-shirts."

Tom was quiet a minute and Jim heard his chair twisting around. "Maybe just playing off the cat and mouse game? Only this time, it's the cat in trouble?"

"Maybe. Like he's going after powerful people?"

"No. Like, playing off his name," Tom said.

"He's not Pipsqueak the little mouse anymore," Jim said as Tom's meaning dawned on him.

"Right. So he developed some elaborate poison and killed that guy on the stairs."

"Or had one of his henchmen do it."

"Does he have henchmen?"

Jim laughed. "Just throwing out scenarios. But why would he kill Glenn Bartlett?"

"Make an example of him?"

"Sure."

"Then he killed Samantha. Or, maybe one of his followers killed her trying to get to him." Tom shifted in his chair. "Then Josiah retaliates with the people on the roof."

"Maybe it's an internal war proving his power," Jim said.

"He's definitely powerful enough," Tom agreed.

"And for some reason, Artez and his sister were at that house. Maybe because Artez was seeing Samantha. Making Josiah a suspect again based on a motive of jealousy."

"However it lies, Josiah's coming up the bad guy," Tom said.

"Let's run it by Marty and Karen when they get here, okay?"

"I sure wish I'd known who he was at the church the other day," Tom said.

"Me, too."

"You feeling better?"

"Yeah. Tom, it was weird." He crossed over and sat on the edge of Karen's desk closer to Tom so he could speak more quietly. "You wouldn't think a few words would have that kind of effect on you, right? But when he touched me, and the way he said everything…"

"What did he say?"

Jim was quiet.

"Jim?"

He shook his head. "Preying on fears and insecurities, I think. Not that hard to figure out with some people."

Tom laughed. "You have fears, Jim?"

"Everyone does, Tom. I'll be back." He stood up and grabbed his bag to go to the locker room.

Jim's foot struck something and he pitched forward precariously. Whatever it was slid forward, and he reached out, his hands clasping around what turned out to be the back of a chair.

Hank whined.

"You okay?" Tom asked.

Jim righted himself, but didn't let go of the chair. "Yeah."

"Looks like the cleaning crew moved some things."

"Where's this go?"

"Over by the window, I think. Or maybe it's from one of the interview rooms. You want me to move it?"

Jim hefted the chair and carried it toward the corner window by Fisk's office. "Nah, I got it. Does it go here?"

"I think so."

"Anything else out of place?"

"Eh… I don't think so. At least nothing's out of place enough for me to notice. Sorry, Jim."

"It's okay." He never used to pay much attention to mundane details, either, back when he could see them.

Fisk's office door opened, making him jump because he was too close. He spun around.

"Where's Karen?" Fisk demanded.

"In the locker room," Tom said.

"Go get her."

"I'll go," Jim said and lifted his bag. "Back in a second." He turned and brushed the side of a desk. It felt like it was off by mere inches, but maybe the chair had thrown him off more than he thought.

The couch in the hallway caught his foot. Jim froze, then reached out. He pushed on the couch and found it had been moved away from the wall about six inches. He pushed the couch back gently until it touched the wall, then headed for the locker room at a slower pace.

"Karen?" He stayed in the doorway.

"Yeah?"

"Has anything in here been moved?" He waited while she looked around.

"Someone set up the card table in the corner," she said. "Why?"

"I think someone's messing with me." He moved slowly to his locker. "If I run into one thing, it's my fault. But three things?"

"Where?"

"Here. In the squad."

"It looked okay to me."

Jim laughed almost bitterly. "Yeah. Maybe it _looks_ okay." He hung up his coat and put his bag away. "Boss wants to see us." He slammed the locker.

"Okay. I'm on my way." He heard her head for the door.

"I'm going to get coffee. Be there in a second." He heard Karen pause in the doorway and turn back as he reached for the paper cups normally next to the coffee maker. They weren't there.

"They're on the other side," Karen said. She sounded a little puzzled.

Jim shook his head and clenched his jaw. If the cups were moved, chances were so were the coffee pots, and he didn't feel like burning himself that morning. "Forget it."

"You don't think Marty would…?"

"I don't know." He moved closer and felt her turn away, but reached out to grab her arm. "You don't mind?" he asked as his hand settled into place.

She laughed. "Of course not."

Karen paused outside Fisk's office.

"What?" he asked.

"Someone turned the water cooler. And moved the cups," she mused.

"Get in here," Fisk barked.

Jim let Karen lead him in, then let go of her arm.

"What?" Fisk asked, obviously noticing the tension between Jim and Karen.

"Someone's been moving things," Jim said, looking up at the boss and keeping all anxiety out of his face and voice.

"Don't look at me," Marty said.

"I didn't," Jim said, turning toward him now that he knew where Marty was.

"Maybe you didn't, but they all did." He grunted. "Come on, I never purposefully moved anything," he said to everyone, pleading his case. "I just didn't bother to remember to put everything back, okay?"

Jim nodded. "Maybe it's nothing."

Karen snorted. "So all the cups accidentally got moved, along with the water cooler."

"And the chair," Tom reminded him.

Jim shifted uncomfortably, feeling everyone staring at him. "Forget it. I'll just be careful. What'd you want us for, boss?"

"Marty came in early and found someone looking for files," Fisk said.

"I never saw him before," Marty said. "He was snooping around, and when I called out, he bolted."

Jim stared over at him.

"You think the same person would have bothered to take the time to move furniture around?" Marty asked.

Jim sighed, thinking. "Maybe."

"Why?"

"Because I'm blind, Marty. If it's related to this case…" He shook his head. "Psychological warfare." He wrinkled his nose. "Maybe we asked the wrong person the wrong question about Pipsqueak yesterday and they know how close we are to solving the case."

"You think we're close?" Fisk asked.

"We have to be. Why else would anyone bother to break in here and move things?"

"Are you going to be okay?"

"I'll be fine." Jim waved the question away with a dismissive gesture.

"Then you and Karen go lean on DeLana Artez. If we are close, they might be in danger."

"Okay."

"Karen, keep an eye out. We don't want anyone following you."

* * *

"You sure you're okay?" Karen asked quietly as he followed her out of Fisk's office.

"Fine. It's a little unnerving, but I'm fine." He laughed. "It's almost funny."

"Almost?" she asked, sounding amused. "Then why are you laughing?"

"It's almost clever. They should have tried it before I met Uncle Josiah the first time." He followed her footsteps to her desk and moved past, carefully walking over to Hank.

"You want me to help put the squad back in order?"

"Later. Let's go make sure DeLana and the kids are okay." He took Hank's harness and followed her to the car.

"'Kay."

He let Hank into the back of the car. "Are you feeling better?"

"I knew I'd miss a lot being gone," she grumbled. He heard her seatbelt buckle click as he pulled his own into place.

"I, uh…" He cleared his throat.

"What?"

"I just wished you would have been there with me instead of Tom, when I met Uncle Josiah."

She laughed. "What could I have done?"

He grinned over at her. "You're really good at telling me when I'm being stupid."

"Well, I'm glad it was Tom and not me."

"Why?"

"I'm just glad I wasn't there."

Jim nodded. "In a way, I'm glad I was."

"Really?"

"Really. I feel better prepared now. I understand the case better." He wouldn't say it, but he also felt like he understood himself better. If someone had started moving furniture around the squad a couple days ago, he would have been angry, frustrated, lashing out, worried about making a mistake and running into something in front of everyone.

"Did you think maybe Marty was the one who moved everything?" Karen asked after a minute.

"I'm glad it wasn't," Jim said. "I'd rather think it was some unseen prescence, so to speak."

She laughed. "Rather than something malicious?"

"Absolutely." He shifted in the passenger seat, uncomfortable thoughts running through his mind. "I'm really glad it wasn't Marty."

* * *

Jim knew the layout of the house better after their last visit and he quickly settled onto the couch with Hank at his feet.

"Can I get you anything?" DeLana asked.

"It's not a social call," Jim said, his voice low and serious.

"Oh." DeLana sounded surprised. "Tamika! Stop lurking in the hallway!" she yelled.

Jim heard Tamika walk into the room.

"Can I stay?" the girl asked.

"Not this time," Karen said.

Jim waited until she'd gone, then pulled off his sunglasses. DeLana was sitting in a chair just forward and right of the couch. He leaned over so his elbows were on his knees and faced her as squarely as he could.

"DeLana, I'm going to tell you what we've learned so far and I want you to listen. When I'm done, I want you to think about your own life, and about your kids, and I want you to stop playing stupid for five minutes and tell me what you know." Jim shifted on the couch. "I'm a detective. This is what we've learned from what you _haven't_ told us—someone's out to kill you, and it's related to your brother, who's missing, and Samantha, who's dead. Probably because she was pregnant."

"She was pregnant?"

Jim nodded. "And it all leads back to Josiah Wilkins."

"No. If he—"

"Yes, DeLana. See, we know everything about Josiah Wilkins' past, where he came from and what he's done. We just don't know who he is. Who is he now, DeLana?"

"But he wouldn't—"

"I met him, DeLana! I met him and I don't understand. Who is he?"

"I've never met him, detective. But if he was going around killing people, why would he have so many people who worship him? They think he's like the second coming or something. He couldn't be killing people. And he wouldn't ever kill Samantha."

"Is he the father of Samantha's kids?"

There was a pause. "Yeah, I think so. They were… close."

"Come on, DeLana. Tell me everything you know. If he's bad, we'll take care of him. If not, convince me."

"Detective, I can't—"

"DeLana!" he snapped. "I don't know how long we can keep you safe if you don't start talking. Artez, he's not your brother, we know that. Who is he? And who killed Samantha's cousin? Start at the beginning."

DeLana had left home years before with Tamika in tow. She'd come up here for anonymity and met Rico, whose full name was Richard, but he'd always gone by Rico. He'd changed his last name when he had insurance trouble about his epilepsy, picked the name Artez out of a newspaper. He'd dropped his real last name because the insurance company was after him, and with his history of illness he was having trouble finding a job. Even without a work history or social security number, as Rico Artez, a man with no health problems, it was easier and he found a couple part time jobs.

"Rico was my brother by choice—you can't get any closer than that. He helped me out a lot after I left home."

"What's his real last name?" Karen asked.

"Why do you need to know that?"

"Right now," Jim said, "even if he's wanted by the FBI, I don't care. But if we find his body, I want a real name."

"White," she said with a defeated sigh.

"Do you know where he is?" Karen asked.

"No."

"Come on, DeLana!" Jim said, getting exasperated.

"I don't know!" She sighed. "Look, I met Rico right after I moved here. He's a good guy. The only problems he has are health-related."

DeLana'd still been working. Tamika was in school, DeWanda just a baby, but Rico took care of her most of the time because he was having trouble finding a job. He was an insurance liability, if something happened while he was working, no one wanted to be responsible for workman's comp.

"Okay."

"And how'd you meet up with Samantha?" Karen asked.

"You don't have insurance, you have problems getting proper meds, you know?" DeLana said. "So we did a little black market trading and Rico met Samantha and she said she had connections, offered to hook him up. He said he loved her. I never trusted Samantha."

Jim leaned forward. "Why not?"

"I dunno. She just never seemed quite human. She was nice enough, but you'd ask her certain questions, and she'd go off on something else, but she didn't seem like she was intentionally ignoring you or anything."

"How did she seem?"

"Programmed."

Jim opened his mouth, but he couldn't speak. Programmed. Brain washed. Maybe like Glenn Bartlett not talking unless he was staring at fire. "So where was she getting the meds? The infamous Uncle Josiah?"

"I think so. He has a thing about drugs. He plays with them, changes them, uses people as guinea pigs."

"And these drugs, do you know what they are?"

"I never saw them. I'd guess they were just his own generic equivalents? Or maybe the medications he was getting from somewhere else? But Rico said whatever he was taking was helping. Then he lost his job and I said he could stay with me. I owed him for all the help he'd given me, and for always helping out with the kids.

"He brought Samantha with and she was pregnant. It wasn't 'til later that I realized all his savings was gone and I never got a straight answer about where they went. Then mine disappeared. Samantha found out she was pregnant with a boy. She carried it halfway to term, then was almost murdered. Her baby didn't make it. She and Rico left, I lost the apartment."

"Who tried to kill Samantha?" Karen asked.

"She said it was random, but she was really sick when she got back and she'd been beaten up. She miscarried that night, but wouldn't go to the doctor. Not like we had enough money to, anyway."

"And after they left?"

"I went to my bank to talk about where my money went, and they didn't have a record of me ever being a customer. Samantha found me and Tamika and DeWanda and told me they were staying with friends. We bounced around a couple years. She kept trying to get me to join her church, said it would fix everything that was wrong in my life. We fought a lot, and Rico thought it was just a girl thing.

"Samantha was a church fanatic." DeLana explained how she held Uncle Josiah in high reverence, like a saint, and how she'd often come back after meetings and proclaim things like an oracle. She would tell them when they had to move on to the next friend. And she was the one who had money, from somewhere, to help ease the burden of all those extra mouths. DeLana kept refusing to go to the meetings and Samantha would almost get violently mad. Rico went a few times, but things were rocky between him and Samantha because he wouldn't give up his part time jobs.

"She got pregnant again and had another boy. Rico started getting… strange. And he started getting more seizures."

"No one tried to kill her again?"

"She didn't give them the chance. We'd been going between her "friends" for a long time—and they were all strange. Right before she went into labor with Clem, we left. We moved in with her cousin for a few months 'cause she said no one in her group knew about him. We've been hiding ever since Clem was born. She wanted to give Clem up for adoption, but Rico wouldn't let her."

"And her cousin, what happened to him?"

"We'd been hiding out at his place, then Samantha suddenly took us to this old house. She didn't say why, just took us. And we found Glenn. He was alone and I didn't see a note or anything, but I guess someone told her if we left the house, they'd kill us, too."

"Who?"

"Those people in her big group. No one liked her. And they found us 'cause we talked to her cousin."

"Did Uncle Josiah kill her?"

"I wouldn't think so."

"But he's definitely the one who got her pregnant?"

"Probably."

"And your kids?" Jim prompted.

"What about 'em?" she said shortly.

"Who's the dad?"

"No one."

Jim raised his eyebrows.

"Rape doesn't constitute fatherhood." She got up and moved away.

Jim looked down. He'd never been comfortable talking to women about past rapes. The longer it had been, the less likely he'd be able to help arrest the man responsible, and the better it was for the woman to try to forget.

"Tamika's daddy, I was young, still in high school. I really liked him and it was my idea to sleep with him. I thought maybe he'd marry me. It was my mistake and I never saw him again. Tamika and I stayed with my momma 'til she was 'bout four. I took her and left home after I was raped the first time. A friend of my mom's, old enough to be my father. I just couldn't stay there… And I had DeWanda."

"And Cindy?" Jim prompted. "She's only two, so that was after—"

"After I lost my apartment, yeah. If you're a woman staying with those people, you're fair game to anyone who comes by. I guess I'm lucky I've only gotten pregnant once since then…"

DeLana told them things went downhill between her and Samantha after that. DeLana blamed Samantha for what happened, and she kept trying to leave, but she couldn't get away. She had three kids to think about, to keep them warm and fed. She didn't even remember giving birth to the last one, just waking up and finding her new daughter already named. Samantha was ecstatic, telling her how Uncle Josiah had performed the delivery without problem.

Jim stood up and stepped away. "What about Uncle Josiah?"

"I never met him."

"What is he? Your best guess?"

"I don't know. I'd say he's not a man of God, no matter what else he is. Extortionist, gang boss, cult leader, hypnotist, politician." According to Samantha, she told them, Josiah wasn't only a saint, but he also performed free medical services for the poor and got them free education.

"But you never met him?"

"Samantha knew him. And Rico did. Rico would leave me in this office at the church and take the kids while they were babies. Until they were old enough to ask questions."

"So he's an amateur chemist and a pharmacist and—"

"An all-around bad guy, if you ask me."

"But can we prove it?" Karen asked.

"No one ever says anything bad about Uncle Josiah. Those friends of Samantha's, she always told me they wouldn't see the light, wouldn't follow good old Uncle J and see the error of their ways. I wanted to leave, but I didn't have nowhere to go. The only friends of hers who had apartments, they didn't belong to the group so much. As far as anyone's concerned, Uncle Josiah's a saint and everyone else is a sinner."

"What?" Karen asked after a moment.

Jim guessed there was something about the way DeLana was looking that prompted the question.

"Samantha thought she was like a prophet or something. She was always trying to recruit people like it was a religion. Trying to save them. That's why we stayed with all those horrible people in the first place."

"A prophet?" Karen finally said in a disbelieving tone.

"Because she'd see things in the future, and she was special to Josiah.

"It was nice staying with her cousin. Things calmed down. She wouldn't talk about Uncle Josiah around Glenn. She went crazy when he died and wouldn't let us leave that house with his body. She said we'd all die if we left."

"But Glenn knew Uncle Josiah," Karen said.

"Did he?"

"I think so."

Jim sat up straighter. "I'd say he absolutely knew. Glenn was part of the group. He knew Brian Mulhaney. He'd been poisoned by whatever stuff Uncle Josiah had. And he seemed to be just as brainwashed as Samantha."

"Samantha swore he didn't know anything," DeLana said. "They never talked about it."

"She was wrong."

"Then Glenn was keeping an eye on us," DeLana said, sounding afraid. "And that's how they found us."

"Probably."

"Are they going to kill me, too?"

* * *

Jim's phone rang. He shifted in the car seat and reached inside his jacket pocket.

"Who is it?" Karen asked.

He held the phone out so she could see the readout.

"The squad," she said.

He flipped open the phone. "Dunbar."

"Check out his address," Fisk said.

Jim repeated the address of an empty warehouse to Karen. "What have we got on it?" he asked.

"Since we focused on finding just Uncle Josiah, we've had a few hits. Tom and Marty are at one now. If they don't find anything, they'll catch up to you at the warehouse."

"Do we know anything about the place?"

"Nothing. We were just told to _definitely_ check this place first. I'm guessing it's an old haunt of Wilkins'."

"We'll check it out," Jim promised. He closed the phone and put it back in his pocket.

"Do you think they're going to try to kill DeLana?" Karen asked, sounding almost as worried as DeLana had.

Jim turned his head away. "Why else would they have been going through our files? Even if she doesn't know anything, she could recognize people."

"But why would they be after her and not all those other people?"

"Maybe there was some sort of trouble, in house, you know? Between Uncle J and Samantha and all those other people. I just wish we knew what Glenn and Samantha were doing in the middle of all this."

"Sounds like they were being played off each other."

Jim nodded. "If Samantha hadn't trusted him, they'd both still be alive."


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen**

"Hank, stay," Jim said. He patted the German Shepherd on the head through the open window of Karen's car.

Unbeknownst to Jim, Hank watched his master with mistrust. The mistrust was masked by the tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, but it was there nonetheless. Hank always sat in the car and wondered what Karen and Jim did when they left him. Probably had fun doing people things that Hank was sure he'd have fun doing, too, if they'd only teach him the rules. The suspicions usually only lasted until Jim and Karen were out of sight because he'd get distracted by people walking by and cars passing and low-flying birds and he'd start daydreaming about doing what his master always told people he'd do—go after bad guys. Hank thought he had the ear-markings of a darn good police dog, if he'd only get the chance.

"One of these days I'm gonna call PETA on you, Dunbar," Karen said good-naturedly as she patted Hank on the head.

Jim took her arm. "I always worry he'll get tangled up in something bad if I bring him to check on leads like this."

"So you let him make drug deals out the car window?"

"Whatever helps him pass the time."

"Big building," Karen described as she opened the door. "Huge warehouse down here. I think it was a five or six story building, dunno about a basement. Pretty empty. Giant cable spools, some insulation, electrical things, dunno what _that_ is."

It sounded like she was wrinkling up her nose and Jim smiled. "Any signs of life? Empty food containers, trash cans, clothes?" They wandered in further and Jim could feel the vast space and emptiness, and hear odd echoes off the high ceiling, probably open with metal beams in a building like this.

"None. There's a few other entrances, and here's some stairs going up." She paused and he felt her turning and looking around. "Look, I'm gonna wander upstairs. You stay here?"

Jim furrowed his brow, but he let go of Karen's arm. She was probably thinking he'd slow her down, and he couldn't exactly help her look. "I'll watch the front door," he said.

She made an affirmative noise and started to walk away.

Jim grabbed the walkie-talkie and quickly held it out. "Here, take this."

She stopped and turned. "Nah, you should keep it."

"Karen," he said patiently, sounding probably a lot like her dad, "you're the one more likely to see something that needs to be called in."

"Right…"

"Besides, I have my cell phone, and if someone comes running down the stairs, I'll take care of it."

He gave her the walkie-talkie and listened to her go, making a special note of where he heard her reach the stairs, his only knowledge of the dimensions of the room.

He waited a minute to make sure it stayed quiet, then pulled out his cane. He had to do something, make himself useful. He walked the dimensions of the room. Right, left, right, left, he tapped the cane to one side then the other to make sure his way was clear. It was a bit like the community service that time when he was younger, stabbing litter on the end of a stick. If only his blindness could be useful like that at the same time.

* * *

Jim was leaning against the wall by the stairs when he heard footsteps coming from across the room. Karen had been gone 20 minutes or so and he'd taken the time to familiarize himself with the room. It really was a huge warehouse of a room, with high ceilings that created weird echoes, and poles every 20 feet or so.

Those weren't Karen's footsteps.

"Hiya, Jim, playing watchdog?" Marty asked snidely.

"Yeah, Marty, I am." Jim sneered back at the footsteps still ten yards away. "That's what I do all day, isn't it? Play cop, play watchdog."

"Yeah, you're a real player, aren't you?"

"Next week I'm gonna be a priest."

"You should try a brain surgeon."

"You can be my first patient, Marty, how's that sound?"

"You know, Jim, you really did surprise me. I didn't think you'd last past Be Kind to the Handicapped Week, but you really have stuck it out."

"Geez, Marty."

"You're blind, right, Jim?"

"Yeah."

"So you're handicapped."

Jim sighed.

"Just tell me, Jim, is it a handicap?"

"You want me to tell you I'm not perfect?"

"I don't think you were ever perfect. Just tell me, is it a handicap?"

Marty sounded so calm and reasonable, almost chillingly like Leonard Mattis, the convict up at Sing-Sing. Jim sighed. But when he thought it over, he couldn't deny it in any way. "Yeah, Marty, it is." He didn't expect a thank you for his admission.

"Okay," Marty said. "So tell me, what if something happened to Karen?"

"Nothing's going to—"

"Tell me, Jim. Or I could go ahead and tell you. See, here's you wandering around a crime scene while Karen's off who-knows-where. If something happens to her, can you find her? Can you help? Probably not. So that's your fault. If something happens to you, I admit, I'd feel guilty. So I'll take responsibility, even if I'm not there. But if something happens to Karen, I don't want to feel responsible for letting you be her partner."

"Letting me—"

"I respect your ability to think, but what are you doing here today, Jim? Do you plan to be a liability if something happens?"

"If I think something's liable to happen, I'll stay back, Marty. But we're just here checking on a lead." Jim's fists were clenched. If the other detectives knew he was scared sometimes, if they knew he'd talked to Galloway about that very possibility of something happening to Karen and how helpless he felt, what would they say? He'd learned years ago that if you show fear, it becomes contagious. He'd been terrified when he first found out he was blind. Christie'd felt it, had gone through the hell with him, had coddled him and cried for him. If he showed fear now, then what?

Jim wasn't ready to have it out with Marty, even if they were alone. They were on a case and needed to act like it. "You been upstairs?"

"Yeah."

"You seen Karen?"

"No… Was she up there?"

"Yeah, somewhere."

"I didn't see her." Marty sounded worried.

Jim listened carefully for any signs of life, but the building was too big. "You have a walkie-talkie?"

"No, Tom has it. He's out back."

* * *

Oh, sht, Hank though, watching a couple shady characters walk past the car. Why didn't I ever pay attention to how they open these doors? He barked a warning to Jim just before the door to the building slammed shut, then he laid down and put one paw over his head. This was so not good.

* * *

"Marty? What do you want from me? You want me to quit my job? Giving up the gun wasn't enough? Or giving up the gun was just supposed to help me transition into not working anymore?"

Marty didn't say anything, but Jim could tell from his breathing that he was worked up, wanted to say something.

"What happened? I thought we were over this."

The breathing quickened.

"Okay, what'd I do? Obviously I offended you again. I've tried to be more mellow, I've given up the gun, what more do you want from me?"

Marty started to walk away, but in order to leave he had to walk closer to Jim. Jim stood his ground. "Just tell me!" Jim reached for Marty's arm, but Marty moved away before Jim could touch him.

"Jim, I just want to know—how could you do it? You have a beautiful wife and I thought she was crazy about you. How could you cheat on her?"

Jim's mouth dropped open as he stared in Marty's direction. "Is that what this is about?"

"Yes!"

Jim turned away. "I never said I was a nice guy, Marty."

"Oh, gee, great, Jim, that just makes everything all better."

"I made a mistake, Marty. I hope you can understand that." Marty was silent and Jim had no way to gauge his feelings. "DeLana was wrong about you," Jim said finally. "You're a good guy, Marty." Marty still didn't say anything. "You can't stand to see anyone hurt, even in something like this. You look out for people."

"I'm not a saint. I just don't like you."

"I know. I wish someone like you had been around when I first started dating Anne—hell, when I first _saw_ her."

"You still would have done it."

"Maybe. I don't know." Jim sighed. "I've been doing a lot of apologizing lately. Let me tell you I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"Because you like to think the best of people."

"You're sorry for that?"

"No, I'm sorry I don't fit into that category." It made sense to Jim now—Marty'd thought he was a stand-up guy, as he'd once said. Jim had thought it was about his blindness, but Galloway was right; he needed to re-evaluate his attitude, figure out how he wanted to define himself. "I'm sorry."

"I don't think I'm the one you should be apologizing to."

"I already apologized to Anne. And to Christie."

They were silent a minute until Marty said, "How'd Karen get over it? I mean, it was her friend."

Jim shrugged. "She got over it." He set his jaw. He'd have to ask Karen why she'd told Marty, of all people, about his affair.

Marty shook his head and started to walk away.

A bark pierced the air.

Jim put out a hand and grabbed Marty's arm as the other detective tried to move past. Marty tried to shake him off, but Jim held his grip, shaking his head. He lowered his voice before Marty could say anything. "Hank doesn't bark," he said quietly. "He's trained not to."

Marty stopped trying to pull away.

Both detectives froze, listening. Jim let go of Marty's arm to let him look around freely.

"Karen's upstairs somewhere," Jim whispered. He pointed for the stairs, hoping Marty would go.

"Got it," Marty said.

Jim listened to his footsteps head away quietly even as another set of quiet footsteps came from the direction of the front door. For a moment the steps blended, giving the impression of one person walking in Dolby surround sound, but Jim closed off the sound of Marty's steps so he could concentrate on the other person.

It would be best not to be caught out in the open like this. He couldn't be caught unaware. Whoever it was, whoever had Hank worried, they could be armed. They could shoot first and ask questions later.

Jim moved behind a pillar. The support was nearly three feet wide, more than enough to hide him.

Marty's steps had reached the bottom step, but instead of ascending, they paused.

Go, Jim willed him. Get out and find Karen. If Karen was safe, Jim wouldn't have any qualms about staying out of the way behind the pillar. They could all get out of there and he wouldn't risk being a liability.

A footstep paused right behind him and Jim silently cursed himself for turning his attention to Marty for even a second.

"I see a shadow that's not supposed to be here," a gravelly voice said. It was a young voice, but lowered and with the words spoken from the back of the throat, like someone trying to sound sinister. Jim shivered, more at the meaning than the planned affect of the voice. There must be windows, daylight. For all he knew, he'd been spotted from the other side of the building before he'd even ducked behind the pillar.

It was better to face the opponent on the offensive than to wait for an attack. Jim stepped out into the open, ready. He faced the place the voice had come from.

And realized Marty still hadn't moved.

"You're not supposed to be here," the low voice said.

Jim found himself suddenly doubled up with a fist in his stomach, but he'd managed to keep the wind from being knocked out of him because he'd been prepared, his stomach muscles clenched.

He hadn't felt his attacker move, so the fist had caught him off-guard. But now that he knew the name of the game, knew the other man didn't come in peace, he was ready.

"Jim!" Marty called. Already the footsteps were headed back in his direction.

Jim took advantage of Marty as a diversion and lashed out quickly with an uppercut at his opponent, connecting beautifully and with such force he could feel pain in his own hand that he knew would be gravely multiplied in the other man.

"Go!" Jim ordered Marty.

"Yeah, you take care of that," Marty said. The footsteps hurried away. They echoed in the stairwell for a moment, then were swallowed in the huge building.

Jim's fist connected again. If he could continue the onslaught, hopefully the other man would be in too much pain to attack back, and Jim could keep control of the situation. For how long, until what, he wasn't sure, but if he could incapacitate—

Jim suddenly found himself flat on his back

* * *

Marty's footsteps kept hesitating on the stairs. He couldn't keep an even tempo. He'd left Jim down there alone—what kind of a cop did that? Sure, Jim wasn't his partner, so he wasn't as responsible for his well-being, and he'd been asked to make sure Karen was all right, but that didn't mean Marty wasn't worried. He always worried about the other cops in his squad.

And Jim couldn't see. He wasn't on familiar terrain. He was open to being ambushed by anyone else who was lurking by an outside door. Who knew how many people were at the building?

Marty shook his head. Jim was a cop. He'd been reinstated, so he must be able to take care of himself. The department would never allow him in a situation he couldn't handle. Just look at how he'd dealt with that Lyman guy trying to take his gun—Marty'd been glad at that point that he'd backed down from Jim's challenge himself. Jim could take care of himself.

But Jim didn't have a gun anymore. Marty felt responsible for that, partly. He'd kept goading Jim, plugging away at him about the gun. But maybe a belly gun in an up-close struggle wasn't such a bad idea.

And then there was the afternoon at the deli, holding the coffee in front of Dunbar's face and realizing he couldn't see it. The time the man in Chinatown had run right past him, had even run into him, and he'd been unable to react fast enough. There were a hundred other little instances just like that over the past several months. And each time, it was usually something small, but it would just stop Marty in his tracks—this guy can't see.

Jim wasn't his partner. Marty's only duty right now was to make sure Karen was safe, then the two of them could go join Jim, help him out down there.

As long as the guy wasn't armed. Jim had no way to hold his own if the guy was armed.

Marty swore at himself.

Yet, Jim had told Marty to go. That took balls, offering to face a guy he couldn't size up, couldn't tell if he was armed.

Jim's first thought had been of Karen, making sure his partner was safe. Marty had to give him credit for that. He'd sent Marty to check on her, knowing Marty could find her more easily, keep her safe. He put his trust in Marty. Even if it meant sacrificing himself.

* * *

Jim stood back up. The other man let him. He opened his mind. It was kind of like opening his perceptions, relying on instincts he never would have trusted before. He'd started karate and other Eastern disciplines after he'd been blinded in order to add to the abilities he already had through boxing and defense classes for cops. He wanted to make himself more valuable, yes, but he also wanted to make sure he never left himself open to attack, make sure he could take care of himself and his partner.

He stared as closely at his opponent as he could, mostly out of habit, but partly hoping the man wouldn't notice he couldn't see. He didn't want the blindness to be perceived as a weakness and used against him. Jim didn't think that, if the guy knew he was blind, he'd let up a even little, giving Jim the upper hand. That didn't seem to be the type of guy they were dealing with.

But who was he? The voice hadn't been that of Uncle Josiah, no one Jim could relate to this case.

"You look very relaxed," the voice said, still in that purposefully low register. "You know you're about to die, right?"

Jim shrugged out of his overcoat and tossed it aside so it wouldn't hamper him. Momentarily the sound of the coat dropping covered the breathing of the instigator, but Jim whipped his head around when he heard the steps moving to his right. He breathed evenly and raised his hands, prepared. He was an easy guy to get a hit on, but the blow would never disable him. He might not be able to catch a swing in mid-air, but he could deflect it so it would cause minimal damage.

The other man laughed.

Jim's fists clenched. It wasn't the sound of a man not taking the fight seriously, it was the sound of someone who thoroughly enjoyed physical conflict.

* * *

There were footsteps running down the hallway, stopping periodically to look in each office, then running again.

Karen froze. Jim couldn't run down a hallway and look in an office, so it wasn't him. She was glad for a moment that he was downstairs waiting, wouldn't have to deal with whoever was coming. Though she sure would have felt better if there'd been two of them up there, not just her.

She couldn't imagine, standing where she was, listening to the footsteps echoing down the hallway, knowing it was only a matter of seconds before whoever it was burst into this room, and then not knowing immediately who it was as soon as they stuck their head in. Jim didn't have that ability to just look up and know who was there. Her heart beat faster just thinking about it, about not knowing.

She pressed up against the wall, her weapon drawn. She'd only have a second to assess the situation.

Whoever it was was panting. Sounded like they were only a door away.

She was six flights up. Even if she had to fire, if the sound carried, it would take Jim several minutes to climb all the stairs to get to her. She was on her own, she realized. She shouldn't have left Jim, knowing how big the building was.

Footsteps. They slid to a stop. She leveled her gun at head-height. The door was pushed open, not even carefully, it slammed against the wall.

Marty was wide-eyed and panting as he surveyed the room.

"Marty?" Karen exclaimed.

"Do you trust Jim?" he asked.

The panic in his voice, she'd never heard it before.

"Yeah…" she said slowly, wondering what Jim had done. She knew they were fighting again, but she couldn't imagine either one doing anything illegal. Maybe they'd finally gotten into a scrap downstairs—

"You think he can take care of himself?"

"I was only going to be gone a few minutes. What happened? I didn't think if I left—"

"Someone's down there."

Karen hurried for the door. "Why didn't you call?" She held up the radio.

"Tom has it."

"Where's Tom?"

"Call him, maybe he's closer."

Karen started to ask Tom where he was.

"Maybe Tom can get there, go check on him," Marty kept talking.

"Geez, Marty, what happened?" she said to him and the radio.

Marty grabbed the radio. "Tom, you see anyone come in?"

"Nah, I'm still outside. You should see all the chemicals in these dumpsters. This guy's making something."

"Go inside, carefully. Check on Dunbar." Then he called for back-up, just in case. Marty thrust the radio back at Karen. "Come on." They hurried for the stairs.

"Who's down there?"

"Some guy. Jim can hold his own in a fight, right?"

"Well, he used to box…"

* * *

Jim bent his knees to lower his center of balance. He put all his weight on his left foot and swept out with his right, catching both of his attacker's feet while lifting the guy's body and throwing it back. The move was effective, landing them both on the ground, Jim on top, sliding his forearm over the tender part of the man's throat. He held one of the man's arms with is left hand, the other he knelt on. "Who are you?"

The man moved to throw Jim off-balance, sacrificing himself to more pressure on his windpipe in order to move Jim. He broke from Jim's grasp, barely even gasping for air. Grabbing both of Jim's arms, pinning them to his sides, he rolled. "You look surprised. But you'll never get anywhere in life if you're not willing to take chances, sacrifice yourself. I knew you'd pull back and not kill me."

Jim concentrated on each of the man's limbs, pinning him down, looking for a weakness.

"I, on the other hand, could easily kill you."

Jim moved before the man could come down on his own windpipe. They rolled again and the other man jumped up.

"A cop, huh? Detective James Dunbar."

Jim was at a loss for a second, then the man threw something to the side. Must have taken his badge during the scuffle.

The man was on him again, seizing Jim's coat, using it momentarily to tie him up until Jim wrenched himself free and listened as the suit jacket was flung aside, fluttering in the air.

The man charged, lowered, hitting Jim with the shoulder like a sumo wrestler, pushing him back. "What kind of cop," the man asked testily, "doesn't carry a gun?"

He threw Jim over his shoulder.

Jim landed and rolled out, back to his feet. He'd landed badly and his shoulder stung, but it wasn't enough to disable him.

"If you had a gun, you'd be dead by now!" he said with barely concealed outrage.

Jim refused to let the talk deter him. He had to take the offensive. While the other man's voice still echoed, he rushed forward, slamming into him, pushing him back, grabbing his collar in his left hand, getting a right hook in before the man spun away.

Jim followed the spin, countering with his left, then pulling the man down across his knee. He threw him back.

Then realized his mistake. He'd compromised his hold, lost contact.

The man recovered quickly and Jim found himself reeling from a blow to the back of his head. He shook it off, told himself he was lucky, wouldn't have to worry about double vision, then quickly carried on.

* * *

Marty thought about that guy Jim attacked during that interview right after he'd gotten back from Hoboken. Marty'd known Jim was tense, pissed. Taken him into the interview room, pretending to be a drug dealer. He hadn't expected Jim to lunge across the table like that. Hadn't expected his aim to be so accurate. Jim would have done serious damage to that guy if Marty hadn't pulled him off in time. Marty'd underestimated him then, had actually had to throw Jim up against the lockers, not just pull him back. He still wasn't sure how much of it was just Jim pretending so the guy wouldn't suspect he was a cop, and how much was actually him seeing how much he'd be allowed to rough the guy up before being pulled back.

That had been the day Jim really proved his worth to Marty. Not just the grappling, but how he'd managed not to blow his cover, even though they'd taken his dog, how he'd never gotten on the other three about losing him, not ratting to the Chief of D's, not saying the other three had gotten lax and lost him, that's why he ended up in Jersey. How he'd kept on the case the whole time, when he must have had other things on his mind. How he'd kept cool, even though losing his dog had to have been eating him. The only time he'd shown it had been when he'd attacked the drug dealer in the interview room. Marty had to admit he'd been impressed by that.

Yeah, Jim could hold his own.

The silence of the stairwell was ripped apart by the echo of a gunshot.

* * *

Jim knew there was blood on his face. Something the attacker had had scratched him pretty good, once on the forehead, once on the cheek. A ring of some sort, he guessed, or a watch.

The other guy kept spitting and Jim started to think maybe one of his punches had dislodged a tooth or cut the inside of the guy's mouth. Probably he was spitting blood. It was hard to take that metallic, sour taste in the middle of a fight. Jim had almost slipped once in one of the spots the guy had spit, but he'd caught himself.

He tuned in closer. They were both panting. Jim's ribs were sore, though not broken. Bloodied and bruised, but no lasting damage yet. His shoulder throbbed from being thrown earlier.

The other man had found Jim's handcuffs and tossed them. Jim didn't have any hand-to-hand weaponry because he hadn't been expecting a fight. It would come down to last man standing. But the longer it dragged out, the more Jim hoped Marty and Karen would come running down the stairs and together the three of them could cuff him. One of them could draw their gun and stand back, threatening—

Unless the guy really was prepared to sacrifice himself. Maybe he was the diversion for someone else.

"_If you had a gun, you'd be dead by now!"_

The other man was an experienced pickpocket. He'd searched Jim for a gun without him realizing. He was probably experienced at disarming people, too. _"…you'd be dead by now."_

Good thing Marty hadn't been around.

Good thing Karen was upstairs.

Good thing he didn't have a gun.

And really, he didn't need one. He could finish this, what was he waiting for? Even if he snapped the guy's neck, so what? Assaulting a cop, Marty'd seen it, it was self-defense if anything happened. He didn't need to hold back, not when he was the more experienced fighter.

"Hey, detective, this is kinda fun, isn't it?" the man asked, then spit.

"Highlight of my day," Jim mumbled. He'd almost caught his breath, but the other man was still laboring, even as he laughed. Jim moved forward and straightened up. He put his hands up to protect himself.

"Aw, you don't like the friendly banter?" the other man asked, his voice dripping in pain.

Jim reached out and grabbed him in a choke hold. The guy was on his last legs, anyway, wouldn't be able to fight back, hadn't even tried to move away.

The guy reacted, though delayed, lashed out, sending them both sprawling, but Jim refused to let go. The guy elbowed him, but it was weak. Jim wasn't giving him an angle to get a good shot.

The guy wiggled some more and Jim let up just enough so he wouldn't actually snap the man's neck. If at all possible, they were bringing him in alive. He resituated, sitting the man up so he'd have less leverage to fight back. He kicked something with his foot.

Metal, not solid, small. His handcuffs.

The man went limp and Jim grabbed the cuffs, slapping them on and pushing the guy away.

"Jim?" Tom called from across the room.

Jim leaned back on his heels to catch his breath. Before he could assure Tom he was okay, a shot rang out, just to his left. A shot at Tom.

Jim was on his feet, running toward the gunshot. It had come just from his left, possibly someone had been coming to help the man he'd been fighting with, but he'd been so preoccupied, he hadn't noticed. Worry or surprise might have paralyzed him if his brain hadn't kicked him alert. He couldn't lose that echo or he'd lose the shooter. If he lost the shooter, they were all in trouble.

His body collided. At first he thought it was a pillar, but then it softened and tipped as he pushed.

"So you're not dead?" the new man asked.

Jim and he were sprawled on the floor. Most people being right-handed, Jim reached toward his left, to the man's right. Armed, Jim wasn't going to take any chances.

The new guy had just been reaching up to shoot him point-blank, though he didn't have a good grasp on his weapon. Disarmed in a second, Jim heard the gun go skittering.

Footsteps running.

If there was a third guy, he was in trouble. Or if the first one regained consciousness too soon. Jim hadn't bothered to put him out for long. He got in a couple good punches, kneeling over this big guy. "Tom?" he yelled.

"Right here," Tom said, sounding out of breath, getting closer. "He missed."

Jim couldn't hold the man, bigger than himself. The shooter rolled, got both feet up, and kicked Jim squarely in the chest, throwing him back. Jim landed hard on his shoulder, his head cracking on the floor. He groaned, tried to roll over, too disoriented to sit up until the floor stopped spinning like a merry-go-round.

He blinked and heard a scuffle, sat up quickly to help. He couldn't tell who was who, so he stayed back.

"Jim!" Tom grunted after a moment. "Cuff him."

"I used mine," Jim said as he scrambled over, not bothering to stand straight in case he lost his balance. He could hear the suspect writhing on the ground, and hear Tom's labored breathing as he fought to keep the guy pinned. Jim touched Tom's back and could feel him struggling against the guy's strength. He fumbled with Tom's coat, then grabbed Tom's handcuffs from the back of his pants. The familiar apparatus slid into his hands and he got them on the man's wrists as easily as when he'd been sighted.

Jim sat back. He could feel sweat trickling down his neck. He was starting to shake with relief that Tom hadn't been shot. He felt Tom pull the guy up. "You sure you're okay?" he asked. Jim stood with them.

"You're the one covered in blood," Tom said.

"I was… lucky," Jim admitted as he leaned back and let Tom take the guy. _"…you'd be dead by now."_

* * *

Jim was sitting on the last stair, looking in the direction of the still-unconscious perp. Tom had taken the second guy to the car, giving Jim a moment to cool down, collect himself, breathe deeply, wipe off the sweat, smear the blood on his face, and think.

"Jim?" Karen yelled.

Jim winced as he turned. He was already starting to stiffen up, could feel the bruises and each cut. He groaned. Christie was going to kill him. And going back to the squad looking like this, the lieutenant was going to have a cow. "I'm okay," he yelled up the stairs. "Tom's taking the other guy to the car."

The footsteps echoed in the stairwell. Jim stood up and waited for them to round the last landing. They hadn't seen him yet, but when they did—

"Jim!" Karen gasped.

"What other guy?" Marty said.

Karen's footsteps moved quickly toward him. Jim held his hand up to stop her. "I'm okay. Really."

"Who got shot?" Karen asked.

"No one. Luckily."

He'd been lucky. Jim knew that wasn't always going to be the case. If there was a next time… He'd have to be more careful. Never be alone, never be a liability. He wasn't about to make anyone feel responsible for his death. Not like Terry had felt responsible for him being blinded.

"So what happened? Who is that?"

"I don't know. Hopefully we'll get some answers when we get back."

"You didn't get any information?" Marty asked.

"You were here, Marty. I didn't ask him for his business card." Jim cracked his neck and stretched his muscles, almost reveling the bruises now. He was okay. He'd held his own. And most fights with perps, there wasn't a gun involved.

"You get bored waiting for me or something?" Karen joked. "Let's get you cleaned up before back-up arrives." She put a hand at his elbow lightly.

Jim nodded. "Yeah. Don't want any squeamish rookies seeing this." He put his hand on her arm. "You see my coat?" He turned, like he could look, but he'd been a little disoriented during the fight and wasn't sure where it had ended up. "And my jacket. And my badge… I think that's about all I'm missing."

"How about your brain?" Marty jibed. "You were lucky, you know that?"

"We all were," Jim answered.

* * *

"Dunbar," Fisk's deep voice boomed across the empty gravel parking lot.

Jim could hear his footsteps on the gravel, crunching toward him. Fisk didn't usually move that quickly. He was pretty laid-back most of the time, trusting his detectives to hold their own and do their jobs. Jim made one last swipe with the alcohol wipe, then lifted his head and turned.

Karen had taken him outside to the car where she kept a first aid kit. He hadn't even bothered to put his coat and suit jacket back on, just enjoying the cold air on his battered skin. He had blood on his shirt and tie, and a little in his hair from a scratch near his hairline. He'd discarded the tie and opened the top button of his shirt while Karen had rubbed the blood from the top of his head and mumbled something about a huge knot on the back of his skull. Jim had winced when her fingers prodded it, but she'd left him alone to finish cleaning up when he asked her to. She'd sat in the passenger seat, the door open, her feet on the ground, asking him about the fight.

"Lucky," he told her when she asked how he felt. He'd leaned against the top of the car, looking down on her.

She snorted. "Yeah, right. You didn't see the other guy."

"No… I didn't."

Then Fisk showed up. "Well?"

Jim could hear a worried note in his voice. "We're all okay," he said, standing as straight and confident as he could. "We caught two guys, but we don't know what their relation is to our case yet."

Fisk put a hand to Jim's face, turning his head to get a better look. "Criminy," he muttered. "If I get a call from your wife…"

"It's nothing."

There was silence. Jim pictured Fisk looking at him skeptically, but then Fisk laughed. "Only because you can't see it."

Jim gestured toward the building. "The other unit's going through the place from top to bottom. And we contacted poison control about all those chemicals Tom found in the dumpsters."

"Good. Let's get you back in-house, get a doctor to look you over." Fisk patted Jim on the shoulder.

Jim tried to keep his face blank. Another sore spot, but he didn't want them to know. "Boss, once you've been shot, a little thing like this…" He gestured to his face and shook his head.

"Karen?"

"How am I s'posed to know if he's okay?" Karen asked.

Jim grimaced, but found the act tugged on the just-closing wound on his cheek. He reached up to feel a little fresh blood seeping under his fingers. He took another swipe with the alcohol pad. "Really, I'm okay."

"We'll see," Fisk said, then walked off.

"Are you sure?" Karen asked quietly.

"Karen!"

"Don't whine, Jim," Marty said, walking over from their car. "We're headed back."

"So are we," Karen said. She stood up.

Jim took her place in the car. He slammed the door and kept his face forward and unreadable. The first aid kid had been spread all over the dashboard, so he busied himself clearing everything and packing it away.

Karen didn't say anything as she climbed into the driver's seat.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter Twenty**

Karen settled into the car, but didn't turn it on right away. She watched Jim carefully organizing her first aid kit, fitting everything into place better than it had been when she first got it. From this angle she couldn't see any of the cuts or bruises on his face clearly, but she knew they were there.

It seemed amazing, she suddenly realized. She'd never obsessed about Jim's blindness the way Marty did, even though he was her partner. But as she watched him, his blue eyes following what his hands were doing, putting cotton balls back in the plastic zip lock bag, tucking alcohol swabs in the plastic container, shifting bandages and gauze into place, she suddenly realized how easy he always made everything look. Walking across the squad room, eating lunch, using a computer. She thought of him going after Lyman on their first case. She'd been unconscious for a while at Randy Lyman's house, coming to to find Jim with his gun leveled at Randy. He'd been completely calm on the way back to the station that day, too, just like he was now. Then later, in the interview room, when Lyman had tried to take Jim's gun and Jim had slammed him up against the wall. He knew his job and could take care of himself, proving that over and over.

She closed her eyes, thinking of him beating up those guys today. Tom had filled them in on the little of the fight he'd seen, but Jim had kept his mouth shut. The one was a huge guy and it had taken Tom and Jim both to subdue him. Tom had said Jim was already pretty battered by the time he showed up, but the first guy was unconscious.

She heard Jim move and a little groan, but she didn't open her eyes. She guessed maybe he was running his hands over his head, but she couldn't be sure. He had a huge bump there, but all he'd say was he landed badly when the second man pushed him off.

Karen thought of all the things that could have gone wrong. If both the guys had been armed—she wouldn't have a partner right now. She'd be crying—sobbing, more like it—because Jim had sent Marty to make sure she was okay. Jim had been looking out for her. And it would have been her fault if something had happened to him. What had she been thinking, leaving him down there to watch the front door? She'd been thinking the warehouse was empty and they weren't going to find anything and it was all a wasted trip and she just wanted to get back to the squad and run Richard White through the system. And for that, she could have Jim's death on her hands.

As it was, he was hurt. She'd heard him groan, felt the bump on the back of his head, seen the cuts and bruises. And those were only the visible ones. She could tell by the way he was breathing that his ribs were giving him pain. She'd watched as he gingerly slid into the car and knew he was sore.

She felt guilty. Behind her closed eyes, she could feel a tear welling up, just a little. Fear and worry and guilt and, ultimately, relief. She was Jim's partner. He'd had her back, and where was she? He might as well have been there on his own for all she could have done.

"Karen?" he asked.

"Yeah?"

"Are we heading back?"

Her eyes flew open and she stared at him a second, having nearly forgotten what they were doing. He was sliding the first aid kit into the glove compartment. He tossed a glance her way and blinked. She blinked back. "Oh, uh, yeah," she said, but her voice shook.

He turned his head to the side, a look of concern on his face. She could see one of the small cuts at that angle and she stared at it. When she brought him here, he'd been fine. "Are you holding up okay?" he asked.

She didn't answer right away, just watched him. He was waiting patiently, his eyes not quite focused on her, his hair tussled, he tried to send a small smile to her, but it died after a small twitch of the lips. The silence was getting too long. "Jim, what if something would have happened to you?"

His head jerked away from her and he looked out the side window, but not before she'd seen his lips press together, his eyes narrow. "Karen," he said, his voice even and low, controlled, almost angry, but she knew Jim wouldn't let his emotions show that easily. "I'm fine. Why are you questioning my ability—"

"I'm not," she cut him off as soon as she saw where his train of thought was leading. "I'm questioning myself, Jim. If something would have happened, how would I have been able to live with it?"

"I wouldn't be a cop if I couldn't take care of myself," he assured her.

"And people get shot in the back every day," she countered.

He just shook his head, staring straight ahead. She couldn't tell what he was thinking.

"Did anything ever happen to any of your partners while you were partnered up?" She swallowed hard, thinking suddenly she shouldn't have brought it up. She didn't know what exactly had happened at the bank, but Jim had been the one who'd been hurt. That had to have killed Terry, just like it was killing her to think Jim could have just been hurt badly in the warehouse. Was that why Terry had—she shook her head, refusing to finish that thought. She didn't want to think Terry capable of shooting himself just because Jim had been shot. And hurt.

She shivered. Jim had a life before he met her, a different partner who hadn't had his back, maybe he'd even been a different person. She wondered how much he minded that change.

Jim was shaking his head. "No. Terry—" He cut himself off. "No." He was chewing on his bottom lip.

Karen started the car, just let it idle. She could tell from the expression on Jim's face that his mind was running along the same lines hers had.

* * *

Jim bit his lip until he tasted blood. It had been split slightly in the fight and now he worried the wound until it opened again. He was still alive. He was okay. He'd been worried at first, the fight, a free-for-all in a strange place. At least the man hadn't been armed. At least the warehouse had been empty.

"I don't want you to worry," he finally said to Karen.

She'd asked how she could have lived with it if something would have happened to him. That was something cops had to deal with every day, but rarely thought about until something actually did happen.

Terry had popped into his head. _"What would make a guy shoot himself in the arm?"_ he'd said. _"'Cause I can tell you what would make a guy do that."_

Jim rested his elbow on the door and put his hand up to his forehead.

Terry didn't want to talk to him again.

Jim really hadn't thought of that, what he'd have felt if he'd been in Terry's place. Yeah, Terry'd screwed up and maybe he shouldn't have ever come back on the job, but—

Terry was a cop. Maybe he hadn't known anything else he _could_ do except come back.

Maybe he didn't deserve forgiveness for freezing, but maybe he deserved it for Jim getting hurt. He could have been hurt whether or not Terry'd been doing his job. Jim had been so absorbed with trying to come back to work, he hadn't thought of anything but Terry already being back at work, how he shouldn't have been there.

Terry hadn't been asking for forgiveness. He'd said that. He'd known Jim wouldn't be able to give it. He knew he couldn't make amends, could only try to apologize. He'd come the first day, knowing Jim would be there, in public. Probably he'd been scared. He'd never tried to come by the apartment after the shooting, before Jim's reinstatement.

And when they'd been working on that case when Terry'd shot himself… Terry'd tried to talk. Jim had barely wanted to hear his voice, but now it replayed in his head, unsteady and nervous.

How could Karen have lived with it if something would have happened to him?

How had Terry lived with it? Knowing he could have done more? Knowing how badly he'd screwed up? If he'd been scared at the bank, Jim couldn't imagine what it had taken to get him to come back and try to apologize. Jim had been so unwelcoming, that's why Terry had asked the lieutenant if it was even okay for them to work together on the Oliver case.

Terry could tell you what would make a guy shoot himself in the arm.

Jim still couldn't fathom it.

But he and Terry had been friends. They'd been partners for three years, not just months.

Karen would have been there for him if she could. Terry hadn't been able to.

Jim found he was shaking. The fight, it was nothing. Getting shot at the bank, that still scared him. Terry had seen it. Terry had seen more than Jim had, seen him lying unconscious, blood gushing from his head. Jim had been unconscious through the whole ordeal, getting taken to the hospital, almost dying. Terry had been there, watching, frozen.

Jim remembered the brief meeting in the park a few weeks ago, when he'd blown Terry off again. He'd said he'd be there, if Terry need anything, but they weren't friends. It almost touched him, after their last meeting when Terry had practically thrown him out of his house, that he'd come up to him at all in the park. It wasn't fair, he'd said, to just walk on by. Was that the only reason, that it wasn't fair for Jim to not know he was there?

Terry might know about fair. He'd known Jim before, so to just walk on by, that would have been cowardly, like hiding.

Karen was driving, he suddenly realized. He touched the cold glass of the window and shivered. The car hadn't warmed up yet.

What if something happened to Karen? He'd run that scenario through his head countless times. If something happened to Karen… He definitely wouldn't go shoot himself. But how would he live with it? He couldn't even think. He'd definitely be off the job. There's no way it wouldn't come back to his inability to do his job, no matter what happened. The brass would make sure he was out. Other than that, how would he deal? If he got messed up just losing a perp, what if Karen got hurt? Or killed?

Terry'd at least apologized, Jim had to give him credit for that. But what if he couldn't apologize?

"Karen?" His voice sounded odd, even to himself. "What if something happened to you? Because I'm your partner?" He felt a hand suddenly gripping his wrist tightly, and he turned toward her.

"I know you would have done everything in your power to stop it, even if you couldn't," she said.

Jim turned away. That wasn't the issue, whether or not he tried to save her. It was whether or not he could.

"Look," she said, "we'd be watching each other's backs. Something could just as easily happen to you as me."

* * *

Marty looked up as Jim and Karen walked in. Jim had his coat and jacket slung over one arm and had Hank's harness in his other hand. They weren't talking, both looking pretty exhausted.

Jim followed Hank to his desk and Marty turned his attention to Karen. Her hair was slightly mussed and she looked almost sick. She probably was still feeling under the weather. Knowing her, she'd have definitely come back before she was completely well.

Jim tossed his coats on his chair, but didn't sit.

"Coffee?" Karen asked.

"Yeah," Jim said. He closed his eyes a second, then opened them and turned toward her. "Yeah."

"Me, too," she said and walked off, peeling off her coat as she went.

Dunbar still didn't sit down, but went to stand by the window. His dog was staring at him.

"Hey," Tom said, hurrying up. "They're bringing up the second guy. The first one's being looked over by a doctor first. He's awake, but he's pissed."

"Is he hurt?" Marty asked.

"I don't think so. Just really banged up. Hey, Jim," he called over, "nice work. I got to see him conscious and all battered and it's a beautiful sight."

Jim half-turned with a small smile of acknowledgement.

"Dunbar," Marty said, "the guy you beat up, he's the one I caught in here this morning."

Jim just nodded, silently absorbing the information. The silence stretched between the three of them.

"So who gets to interview the big guy?" Tom asked. "Jim? You want a shot at him?"

Jim shook his head. "You two can take him."

Tom looked quizzically over at Jim, probably surprised he would pass up a chance to talk the guy straight through to a confession, but then he shrugged and headed over to his desk.

Karen came back with two cups of coffee in hand. She'd shed her jacket and looked a little better than when she'd come in, more collected. She touched the back of Jim's hand with one of the cups and waited for him to take it.

"Hey," Marty said to her, "Tom says they're bringing one of the guys up."

"Great," she said quietly. "I'm gonna go get settled in the observation room. Jim?"

"Be there in a few minutes," he said, blowing on his coffee.

Marty wondered if they'd talked in the car about who would be interviewing, then figured they'd probably had better things to talk about, like what the hell Jim was thinking, splitting up from Karen like that.

"Quite a show down there," Fisk said, walking up. "That one guy's giving the doctor a heck of a time. We had to give him a bit of a tranquilizer."

Jim turned. "Will we get to talk to him today?"

"Maybe." Fisk was looking Jim up and down. "They think his wrist might be broken, so it'll be a while if they have to set it. But the drug isn't going to knock him out." Jim was nodding. "How about it? Need that doctor?"

Jim gave over a slight frown and shook his head. "I'm doing great."

"Marty," Fisk said, "this isn't a tennis match."

Marty snapped his head back to his computer instead of looking between the two. He heard Jim chuckle and he almost chuckled himself, but caught himself in time.

Fisk headed for his office. Marty heard footsteps and looked up to see a uniformed officer bringing in Perp Number Two. Jim was looking back out the window, so Marty leaned back and told him the guy was there.

Jim nodded. "I'm ready." He set down the coffee and pulled his cane out of the pocket of his overcoat. Marty watched him shake it out and tap it on the floor to make sure it was set.

Marty looked around the squad. He'd forgotten that things had been moved that morning, but guessed it was in Jim's best interest not to forget. He surveyed the room. Jim had sworn things were out of place, but it really didn't look like it.

Jim walked up the aisle, his cane tapping back and forth. It hit a trashcan and Jim leaned down and moved it under a desk. He straightened and continued walking, the next desk slightly out of place. Watching Jim and knowing how he usually easily moved down that aisle between the desks, Marty could see now how they were slightly off.

He got up and followed.

Jim paused outside the interview room door.

"You change your mind?" Marty asked brightly, clapping a hand on Jim's shoulder.

Jim grimaced, his knees actually buckling an inch under the pressure. Marty pulled his hand back and watched pain flash across Jim's face.

Jim cracked his neck and the look was gone. Both hands on the top of his cane, he turned to Marty. "Don't do that," he said quietly.

"You sure you're okay?" Marty asked before he could stop himself. He hadn't been planning to ask because Jim seemed to hate that question so much, like people thought of course something would always be wrong with him, using it as a sort of put down.

"I'm sore, that's it. I was just wondering what this guy looked like." He nodded his head at the interview room door.

"He's a big guy," Marty said. "Six-five or something, muscley—"

"I know." Jim waved the description off. "That much I know."

Marty nodded. Yeah, Jim had fought this guy briefly, Tom had told him. He was big enough and strong enough he'd kicked Jim a few feet away.

"He looks…" Marty shrugged, glancing through a small gap in the blinds. "Like my Aunt Ethel, but young. She's my great aunt, really."

Jim's face was screwed up, looking over at him.

"You know how old people get all distorted? He doesn't have her wrinkles, but he's ugly enough. His nose is sort of drooping and his mouth looks like he always frowns. He's got short hair, brown. And he slouches." Marty looked back at Jim to find him with an odd smile.

"Thanks, Marty. That was enlightening."

"You don't have to make fun of me, Dunbar—"

"I'm not." Jim waved a hand in the air to cut him off. "Honest, that's the best description I've ever gotten. It's like I know what he looks like."

"Oh."

"Kind of scary, isn't it? Finding a family resemblance in a perp?" Jim smiled teasingly.

"Watch it, Dunbar. My Aunt Ethel likes to hit people with her cane."

He hefted his cane in one hand. "So do I."

"We almost ready?" Fisk asked. He clapped a hand on Jim's shoulder.

Marty saw Jim's eyes blink, but other than that, he held his ground, even as Fisk squeezed his injured shoulder. Marty had to give him credit, even as he grimaced for Jim. Never show the boss you might be hurt. Jim looked a little paler than he had a moment ago, and he couldn't keep the relief off his face when Fisk let go, but other than that, he was a silent mask.

Fisk turned toward the observation room.

"I'm ready," Tom said, coming up on the other side of Jim. Tom reached up to put a hand on Jim's shoulder, maybe to move him aside so he could open the door to the interview room. Marty grabbed it before he could touch Jim. Jim moved away, following Fisk. Tom gave Marty a confused look, but didn't say anything, even when all Marty gave back was a shake of the head.

* * *

Jim slid into the observation room and folded his cane.

"What are we going to do about that?" Fisk asked.

"What?"

"You getting around the squad?"

Jim kept his face blank as he looked up at the boss. "I learned my way around once, I can do it again. I've already moved some things back."

"You need any help?"

"Nah. I got it."

He guessed Fisk to be nodding in the silence. He felt Karen touch him lightly on the arm and he turned toward her.

"I grabbed an ice pack, if you want it," she said quietly.

"Oh." He shrugged nonchalantly, like he was fine, but the movement jarred his shoulder. "Sure." He put the cold pack on his shoulder. It felt good, numbing.

"What'd you do to your shoulder?" Fisk asked.

"Yeah," Karen agreed. "I got that for your _face_."

"It's nothing. I just landed wrong." He'd been so preoccupied with the pain in his ribs and his shoulder he hadn't paid any attention to his face. Now he slid his cane into the back pocket of his pants and gingerly touched his face.

"You're probably going to have a black eye tomorrow," Karen said. "There's a little bruise already."

Jim's fingers tenderly explored his right cheek and under his eye, next to the cut that ran down the side of his face. "Doesn't really hurt," he said, pressing the ice pack to his shoulder.

Karen laughed. "You want me to take a look at your shoulder? I took some first aid classes."

Jim held up a hand. "Don't touch." He waved her back.

"Okay." She laughed at him again.

He smiled back.

* * *

Jim heard the door to the interview room click shut and he leaned carefully against the wall, avoiding bruises and sore spots. He tucked the ice pack between his shoulder and the wall and tucked his hands under his crossed arms to warm them back up.

"What's your name?" Tom asked.

"He didn't have any ID?" Jim asked.

"None," Fisk said.

"Santa Claus," a deep voice said, the same one that had inquired of him that he wasn't dead yet. It almost sounded like the guy Jim had talked to on the phone to set up the deal for the poison, but he wasn't sure. He didn't want to waste time looking for connections where there weren't any if it was just wishful thinking.

"Yeah. Right," Tom said.

"Or maybe it's the Grim Reaper," the guy said.

"What's your name?" Tom said.

Silence answered. It stretched as Tom and Marty alternated questions.

Karen sighed from the other side of the mirror. Jim glanced over at her.

"Tom's taking his fingerprints," she said after another minute.

"Are you working for Uncle Josiah?" Marty finally asked.

"Who?"

"Damn," Fisk said. "I hope the other guy's more talkative." He moved past Jim toward the door. "I'm gonna go see if we can get him in the other room."

"Why'd you shoot at me?" Tom asked.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Jim groaned.

"There was a gun. We have it. Your fingerprints are on it. We found the slug. We have _witnesses_."

"I was coming to check on my friend, who was getting his ass kicked. I didn't have no gun."

Jim heard two hands slapped against the table in the interview room. "You trying for an insanity plea?" Marty asked. "You want to play stupid?"

"You assaulted a police officer," Tom said. "Two, actually."

"I didn't see a badge. Or two badges, actually."

"Geez, he almost sounds sincere," Karen said. "He's a jerk, but it's like he's telling the truth."

Jim's head snapped over toward her. "You're right. Glenn Bartlett wouldn't talk about Brian unless he was looking at fire."

"So?"

"So, if he was doing this by suggestion, maybe he needs to hear a keyword or something."

"What?"

"Like those parties where they hypnotize people to respond to certain words—like you say the word "duck" and someone belts out "Mary Had a Little Lamb," then they don't remember doing it?"

"Oh… So he's working for Uncle Josiah?"

"I'm guessing they both work for Uncle Josiah. They were at the building with all the chemicals, maybe they were finishing cleaning up."

"You think Josiah suggested to this guy to come after you because we were getting too close? And he told this guy to kill you if he heard the word "duck.""

"If it's true, we're never going to get anywhere asking him questions."

"Then what?" Karen moved closer to him, leaning against the mirror.

"We'll never get anywhere, but maybe someone, like a shrink, could get through to him. Or maybe, I read once where the only way they could get through to some girl who'd been under the influence of suggestion, was to get another hypnotist in who could break the code. We can't guess, but if we get a professional in here to work with him…"

"It's worth a try. You want me to go run it by the boss?"

"I'll go. I need to walk." He straightened up, his muscles protesting. He unfolded his cane and switched the ice pack to the same hand so he could open the door. Once outside he held the pack to a particularly sore rib as he crossed to the lieutenant's office, his cane outstretched for obstacles.

Fisk was talking when he got there, so he stood outside the open door, waiting for him to get off the phone.

"Jim?"

"Karen and I have a theory." He stepped into Fisk's office.

"You want to sit down?"

Jim shook his head. "If I sit, I'm never getting back up again." He ran the boss through the theory.

"I'll make some calls."

* * *

Jim found himself heading back to his desk instead of the observation room. It was getting late. He picked up the phone and was surprised Christie answered when he called the apartment. He'd expected her to still be working.

"Hi, hon," he said.

"Jimmy? What's the matter?"

"Why d'you think anything's wrong?" he asked, laughing. It was nice to hear her voice, even if she was worried about him.

"Because you never call me pet names anymore," she said.

"Oh." He heard the interview room door open and guessed Tom and Marty had given up. "I was just calling to let you know I'm gonna be late. We got a break in the case, so we're interviewing two suspects." He listened to Christie talk and three sets of footsteps head back for the desks. Karen was running the deprogramming theory past the guys.

"That's great! You don't sound overly thrilled, though," Christie said.

"We're not getting anywhere yet," he said.

"Oh. Maybe they aren't involved after all?"

Jim almost laughed. "Trust me, they're involved."

"Everything else okay?"

"Yeah."

"You're okay? You didn't get shot? You promised."

Jim laughed despite knowing how close he'd come to being shot. He'd never let Christie know that, how he'd reached up and felt the gun leveled at his face before disarming the guy. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Except for getting your ass kicked," Marty said loudly, leaning toward his desk.

Jim quickly covered the mouthpiece, but it was too late.

"Marty!" Karen said.

"Jimmy, what happened? What was that? Was that Marty?"

Jim glared over at Marty, then moved back as the other detective invaded his space. Marty grabbed the phone and Jim pulled it back, but Marty had the advantage of surprise.

"He's okay," Marty said into the phone.

Jim leaned against his desk, still not wanting to sit.

"I just figured he wouldn't tell you… Yeah, he's fine, just a little beaten up… Yeah, sure." Marty jabbed him in the chest with the phone.

Jim took it. "Thanks, Marty," he said sarcastically.

"No problem. Jim, she's not blind. She'd figure it out eventually."

Jim wrinkled his nose.

"But you're making her worry now," Karen said.

"Jimmy?" Christie said.

"Yeah?"

"What happened?"

"I got in a small scuffle with one—okay, both—of the perps. Karen said I'll probably have a black eye tomorrow." He touched his face again gently, feeling it getting puffier.

"How late are you going to be?"

"I don't know."

"I have to see for myself, make sure you're okay."

He turned his back on the other detectives, talking quieter into the phone. "I'm okay," he assured her.

"You're going to miss dinner, right?"

"We'll order in."

"I'll bring it up."

"You never bring dinner."

"I do tonight."

"Stop worrying."

"Jimmy!"

Jim put his hand over the mouthpiece. "Christie's bringing dinner—what d'you guys want?" He talked to her, trying to reassure her while the detectives batted ideas back and forth.

"Happy, Marty?" he asked when he hung up.

"Yeah," Marty said happily.

Jim couldn't help but laugh. "Karen? You got any make-up?" He gestured at the bruises on his face.

She laughed. "We don't exactly have the same complexion."

"So?"

"So I'd say you're more of a winter…"

"What's that mean?"

"It means you're a pasty white boy."

Jim laughed and eased himself into his seat. He let out a breath when he was down. One of his knees was starting to smart, as well as the small of his back. The knee didn't surprise him much, he'd injured it enough times before. He reached up to touch the knot on the back of his head, but winced when his fingers brushed the hair over it. He pulled a bottle of aspirin out of his drawer and swilled three down with cold coffee.

"Hey," he said suddenly. "Did anyone search this guy for aspirin? You know, the deadly kind?"

"Yeah," Tom said. "I searched him when I took him to the car earlier, and I had them do a more thorough job later."

Jim nodded. "The other guy?"

"Dunno. I told them to, but they might have been more worried about examining him. You worked him over pretty well. He even lost a tooth."

Jim winced in sympathy. "So what all'd you find at the warehouse?"

Tom's chair creaked. "You should have seen it. The mother load," he said. "I don't know what any of that stuff's for, but I bet you our Uncle's making some illegal stuff to make all his followers feel good that he made their lives all shtty."

"Did it all get taken into custody?"

"Every last container. And they were scouring the building to see what else they could find."

"Karen?" Jim asked. "Did you find anything before you were so rudely interrupted?"

She grunted at him. "There was a filing cabinet upstairs on the second floor, but I skipped over it so I could search the whole building. I didn't recognize any of the names on the files. The officers are supposed to be going through it. Other than that, the place was spotless."

"And all the chemicals were in the dumpster?"

"Yeah," Tom said.

"Why would someone scour the place, and throw all their chemicals away?"

"Because they were expecting us?"

"Obviously." Jim's hand went to his face again. "They knew we were coming."

"Then why'd they leave a filing cabinet?" Karen asked. "If there's any useful information in there, anything that will incriminate Uncle Josiah… Would he even be keeping files?

"Maybe there's nothing in there," Marty said. "Maybe it's left over from the last business."

Jim nodded.

"Or it's starting to sound like planted evidence."

"Which is theory number two," Tom said.

"What's number one?" Marty asked.

"Number one is Uncle J's a bad guy and he's out to kill everyone. Number two is he pissed someone off and they're out for revenge, but he's still a bad guy."

"Number three?"

"I haven't gotten that far yet," Tom said.

* * *

"Jimmy?" Christie called.

Jim pushed himself up out of the chair. The aspirin had taken affect, leaving him more mobile. He walked just past Marty's desk, the only route he was sure of in the department, to meet her, then stopped. He heard her heels clicking as she hurried over and listened as she dropped a few bags of food on Marty's desk.

"Jimmy?" she asked quietly. She pulled off his sunglasses, which he'd put on specially right after she'd called.

"I'm okay."

"I'll bet you are. Where _doesn't_ it hurt?"

He leaned down and kissed her. "Right there." He held out a hand and led her back to his desk where he cleared away his laptop and pulled up a second chair so she could sit next to him. "You all remember Christie, right?" She handed him the sunglasses and he dropped them out of the way in his desk drawer.

Marty opened all the wrappers and passed sandwiches around, quiet again. Jim swallowed hard, hoping Marty would have the decency not to say anything about Anne. If Christie knew that Marty knew… It was bad enough when she found out Karen knew.

"Here, Dunbar," Marty said, stretching back to lay a couple sandwiches on the corner of his desk.

"Thanks, Marty," Jim said and stretched forward to grab them.

"I brought coffee for everyone," Christie said, sounding almost shy.

Jim reached over and found her hand. He squeezed it and she passed him a coffee. He let go of her hand and situated his dinner on his desk. Christie was sitting close enough he could feel her moving things around next to him. He touched the wrapper, feeling for the folds, turned it upside down and unwrapped it to get to his toasted meatball sub. He inhaled, suddenly starving, smiling as the spicy aroma hit his nostrils. He took a huge bite.

Christie hadn't moved, even though he could hear the other detectives chewing in the after workday silence. They were pretty much the only ones left in the department.

She was sitting on his left and he looked down at her. She reached up with a napkin and took a small dab at his mouth. "I guess I'll just have to sit on this side of you for a while, huh?"

Jim knew most of the damage was on the right side of his face. He shrugged. "You used to like it when I got into fights," he said quietly. He leaned closer to her. "The last time I had a black eye, you told me it was sexy." He winked at her.

Tom snorted. Karen burst out laughing. Even Marty chuckled.

Jim took her hand again. "I thought you liked the tough cop, the guy with the gun."

He bit his lip. It had been out of his mouth before he'd thought it through. He forced himself to smile even as his heart twisted painfully. "Like you said, maybe I don't need the gun anymore." He turned back to his sandwich, as if it didn't matter.

Christie squeezed his hand.

Marty cleared his throat awkwardly. "Maybe, if you'd had the gun, you could have ended it sooner and not gotten all banged up," he said slowly.

Jim shook his head. The thing the guy had said had plagued him all evening and he couldn't wait to talk to him. That guy, he wanted to interview him.

"Yeah," Marty said. "It would have been over sooner."

Jim gave a short laugh. "Yeah, it would have, and I'd be dead."

Christie's hand tightened around his, not letting up the pressure. Jim leaned back in his chair and looked past her to Karen and Tom.

"The first guy, he was experienced at disarming people," Jim said slowly. "He told me, if I'd had a gun, I'd be dead by now."

"Geez," Karen said so quietly it was almost a whisper.

Marty and Tom were both quiet. Christie was holding his hand tighter so he reached over and put his other hand around the back of hers. He smiled down at her. "Sorry. I wasn't going to tell you."

"Were you going to tell us?" Tom asked.

Jim looked up.

"Yeah, but that was just one time," Marty said.

Jim laughed. "You trying to get me killed, Marty?"

"No. I'm just saying, so this one time—"

"Marty, we've been through this."

"And you got your ass kicked."

"So what? Let's say it was some other guy and I had a gun. I would have had better control—unless I was disarmed." Jim shook his head. "If they managed to separate me from my gun… what would I do then? It's better this way."

"If he'd caught me upstairs…" Karen said quietly. "Or, Marty… if you'd stayed to help…"

"Yeah, Marty, it's a good thing you're a hard ass," Jim said with a grin.

"Sht," Marty said.

Tom laughed. "That's why you told me we were _all_ lucky, huh, Jim?"

Jim just turned away and picked his sandwich back up.

"You think we wouldn't be grateful?" Tom asked. "You weren't going to tell us?"

"I wanted to talk to the guy first," Jim said.

"Finish up," Fisk ordered, popping his head out the door of his office. "They're gonna bring the first guy up within the half hour."

* * *

Jim stood up and grabbed just his overcoat. "I'll walk you out," he told Christie. She helped him into the coat. He lightly slapped his thigh, afraid of finding another sore spot. Hank jumped up. "I'll be back," he told everyone. Christie slipped her hand into his.

"You sure you're okay?" she asked when they were alone in the elevator.

"I'm sore, I won't lie," he said, facing straight ahead.

"Other than that?"

"Even my pride's in tact."

She leaned closer to him, but stopped short of cuddling. "I'm glad you're okay…" she said.

"But you're still worried."

"Shouldn't I be?"

"You wouldn't be if I could see." The elevator doors opened and he walked her out of the building.

"I'm more worried about what you told me about that guy, planning to kill you. Come on, Jimmy!"

He stopped her on the sidewalk and turned toward her. "Then I'm lucky I'm blind." He pulled her roughly to him with one arm, keeping Hank's harness in his other hand. "Right? Maybe being lucky isn't so bad." She was quiet, but she carefully wrapped her arms around his back. "This is my job, Christie."

"I know." She sniffled.

He kissed the tip of her nose. "Don't cry."

"I already did. After Marty said you'd been hurt…"

"Yeah, well, damn him. It wasn't his place. I didn't want to worry you."

"You can't protect me from everything, Jimmy."

"But I can protect myself." He spoke close to her face to make sure she looked at him. He could feel her breath. "Even if I get a few black eyes and bumped shins in the process."

She took his hand and started walking toward her car again. "I'm glad," she said after a minute. "Really. I just—I don't want you getting hurt again. Jimmy, that was so hard. And this case…"

Hank stopped at a curb and Jim felt the edge with his foot, listening for traffic. Christie sighed. She was probably thinking of how things kept going wrong with the case, how he'd been practically out of his mind just a couple days before.

"I've learned a lot, this case," Jim said when they were safely across the street. He shook his head, imagining the dark street and the streetlights, headlights whizzing past, and stars standing still. Dots of light in windows. The city, a place filling the darkness with points of light. There were a few bright spots in his own darkness. "Maybe you don't learn by playing it safe."

"Here's my car." She stopped him.

"It's all the easy stuff from here," he told her.

"Be careful." She stood up on tiptoe to kiss him, then stepped into the street.

Jim stood there until she pulled away. He held up a hand in a wave, then headed Hank in the direction of the park. He needed to think a few minutes before heading back into the thick of the case.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty-One**

Jim headed Hank into the locker room. He felt he could drink a whole pot of coffee. Someone else was in the room, but Jim didn't say anything. If they didn't know to say something by now…

Just the vibe, maybe a whiff of aftershave, the fact that there were only four other people in the department that late, only one of whom would be enough of an ass to ignore him… It was definitely a guy, Jim could tell by the movements. Fisk didn't usually come in here. And from the location of the locker—it was probably Marty.

Jim dropped Hank's harness and carefully touched the handles of the coffee pots. He reached into the cupboard and immediately was rained on by tiny packets of sugar when his hand hit something other than the coffee can. He pulled back, hearing the pattering of packets falling onto the counter and the floor. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath then started picking up the packets and piling them to the side.

"Marty?" he called over. "Where's the coffee?"

"You can't even find the coffee?" Marty asked.

"Someone _moved_ it, do you understand that?" Jim tossed a pack of sugar onto the counter and turned.

Hank whined at Jim's tone of voice.

Marty stalked up, pushed past Jim and grabbed something out of the cupboard. He slammed the metal coffee container on the counter. "How's your wife?" Marty asked coldly.

Jim turned away.

"Last week…" Marty started, sounding bitter.

Jim cleared away the sugar and put the coffee can back in its normal spot. "What?" he asked, not looking back.

"At the bar—I was just playing into your hands, wasn't I? Almost gave you _permission_ to put your hands all over Karen."

"I didn't—"

"You sure looked cozy to me."

"But I didn't. Ask her." Jim finally turned.

"Like she'd tell me."

"Marty, I'm not going to take advantage of Karen! I'm not going to let her get hurt, either."

"You swear?"

"Yes! You want it written in blood?" He held a hand out.

"I don't think you have enough left." Marty pushed past him into the hallway.

Jim shook his head and decided against the coffee. The best thing to do was just get the case over and done with.

Hank yawned as he settled back behind Jim's desk. It had been a long day. Hank watched his master a moment, fighting to keep his eyes open. He didn't know much about humans, but he knew Jim was starting to limp, probably needed a trip to the vet.

Jim reached for his cane, which he'd pushed aside with his laptop, but his hand froze and clenched into a fist. Even with half the room slightly off, making him feel like he was drunk and misjudging distances, he knew his way around the squad. He wasn't going into the interview room cane in hand. He wasn't even going to wear his sunglasses. He pulled back and headed over.

"Jim?" Karen asked from the door to the interview room.

He held up a finger for her to wait, concentrating on the slightly skewed distances from his last trip this way. His pace was slower than usual, but it was better that way, taking pity on his battered body.

"Yeah?" he asked when he joined her.

"Christie okay?" she asked.

He knew that's not what she was going to ask, but he let it go. "Yeah. She's still worried."

"Me, too. I keep thinking, what if something had happened. Especially after what you told us about the gun."

Jim sighed. "Don't worry so much."

"Why not?" Marty asked, walking up.

"Because it's not productive," Jim said stiffly without a really good reason. It was okay to worry, just not about him. "Ready?"

"They set his wrist," Karen said.

"Which one?"

"The broken one," Marty muttered, then headed for the observation room.

"What's up?" Karen asked.

"Nothing. Which one?"

"The right one. So he has a cast."

Jim followed Karen into the room.

"You look like hell," the young man from the fight said.

"You should talk," Jim said, trying to develop enough rapport to get the guy talking.

Jim walked over to where a chair usually was, but found himself holding onto an empty table. The interview rooms had been messed with, too, but he wasn't going to let it get to him. He'd just be careful walking around. He didn't like to make mistakes around people he was interviewing. If they didn't respect you, they were less likely to talk.

"What's your name?" Jim asked.

"Michael."

"Michael what?"

"I renounce attachment to worldly things like the people who supposedly gave birth to me," he said in a wry tone of voice, like he was smirking. The kid had probably rehearsed answers to half the questions they were going to ask him.

"And your allegiance is to…?"

"My only ally in life is Uncle Josiah."

"Why?" Jim couldn't help saying.

"Because he's a god. You don't disobey God." Michael chuckled. "Have a seat, detective," he offered with an imperious tone.

Jim moved back and sat on the ledge that ran under the window. "Do you feel better now?" he asked.

"I moved the chairs."

"I know." There was a moment of silence before Jim spoke back up. "You haven't done much we don't know about. Now all we need to know is why."

"Who cares why anything happens?"

"What were you doing in the warehouse?" Karen asked.

"Looking for you. Uncle Josiah knew you'd be there. He instructed me to take care of you. Why don't you carry a gun?"

Jim ignored the question. "So you came after me because Uncle Josiah told you to."

"That's what I just said."

"Where'd you learn to disarm people?"

"Junior high. Catholic school. Why didn't you kill me?"

"Because we need information and you have it. Will you cooperate?"

"What choice do I have?"

"You'll tell us everything we want to know?"

"Yeah."

"About Uncle Josiah?"

"The world would be a better place without him."

Jim glanced in Karen's direction, wondering if she was catching the same vibe he was. Uncle Josiah's follower, swears he's loyal, yet offers them information. "You don't seem as… difficult to talk to as the other people we've dealt with."

"How so? Because I'm cooperating?"

"No. Because you speak in full sentences."

"Because I'm not brainwashed, you mean?"

"Yeah."

"I'm Uncle Josiah's right hand man. I've helped him take care of everything."

"And you're helping us because…?" Karen asked.

"Pang of conscience? When I lost that fight I realized Josiah couldn't be a god or I wouldn't have lost. David and Goliath and all. You can do anything with God on your side. I had a little time to think while they bandaged me up. I re-evaluated my life."

"How old are you, Michael?"

"Age doesn't matter. That's just counting backwards—being alive a certain number of years. It's especially extraneous because no matter how many years you've lived, the chances of you having done something important enough to warrant counting the years is slim."

"Okay…" Karen said slowly.

Jim blinked.

"What matters is how long we have left. Count forward. Do something with the time before you die."

"What do you plan to do with the rest of your life?" Jim asked.

"I plan to save all those people just like Uncle Josiah said he would. Only I do it by releasing them."

"Why's Uncle Josiah killing people if he's pretending he's such a great guy?"

"To show his power. He likes to flex his muscles. People are just guinea pigs to him anyway. He needs to test his new drug—the one that kills without a trace."

"Does he just give that to anyone who asks for it?" Karen asked.

"If it's for a good cause."

"How does he know if it's a good cause? What is a good cause, to him?" Jim asked.

"Death is a good cause. It's the greatest one there is."

Jim cracked his neck. He wanted to talk to Josiah about all this personally. Getting theories second hand? It was creepy enough. He was sure if he heard them straight from the horse's mouth that he'd shudder, have to lock the guy up just for being so twisted.

"Let's talk about you for a while," Jim said.

"Why? I thought I was just your golden egg, something to get you everything you need to lock up Josiah."

"I never go into anything that focused. Tell us about yourself."

"There's nothing to tell."

"Sure there is," Karen said. "You've obviously lived a fascinating life, tagging around after a messiah, learning the tricks of the trade, helping kill people."

"Nothing much special," he said with a shrug in his voice.

"you don't call any of that special?"

"There's hundreds just like me. You saw them in the church the other day," he said, turning to Jim.

Jim paced back to the table. "You sound young," he said. "Early twenties? 21?"

"Nineteen and a half if you want to be that way. Born of Sylvia and Russell Hershach of Trenton, New Jersey. They're dead, by the way. Josiah put them out of their misery. My mother had cancer, runs in the family, only a matter of time before I succumb. My father was on his third heart attack. Also runs in the family, so I'm screwed. They were some of the first guinea pigs and Josiah's been experimenting on me. Preventive medicine. Will he save my life? Or will he kill me in the process? All in the name of science."

"What were you doing in the squad this morning?" Karen asked.

"Brian failed."

"So?"

"So Josiah wouldn't just give up."

"What was Brian looking for?"

"Samantha. Josiah didn't know where she was."

"And what were you looking for?"

"Information. I wanted to know how close you were to figuring it out."

Michael was starting to sound like a snob. Jim cocked his head to the side, listening carefully to Michael's tones of voice. He still had that superior air, like he was doing them a favor. Jim was surprised at the lack of fear in his voice.

"How close were we?" Karen continued.

"I don't know. I'm not good at hacking into files like Brian was," he said sheepishly, like it was his one shortcoming.

"Are you aware that wasn't Brian Mulhaney?" Karen asked.

"No. Who was it?"

"I was hoping you could tell us. That wasn't his real name."

"Josiah once called him Harvard, but I think that was just a nickname."

"Does Reg Schmidt strike a bell?"

Michael laughed. "See? I knew you'd know who he was."

"Why'd you move the chairs?" Karen asked.

Michael laughed again. "Nice. She's sticking up for you." He reached over and patted Jim's hand. Jim didn't move, just let it run its course. Michael would get to the end of his charade eventually, then they'd be waiting for him.

"Just answer the question," Karen said.

"Brian told me there was a blind detective working here. Obviously, I didn't know it was you at the warehouse, not right away. But I'm glad now. I'm glad it was you. Maybe I lost the fight, but I still got to you, didn't I?"

"Yeah," Jim said, "you really got to me for a minute, but I figured it out."

"Only 'cause I got caught by that other detective. That tipped you off, didn't it? Having an intruder in the building? Proved you weren't just imagining it. Brian thought it would be funny." Michael laughed. "I went for a little more subtlety."

Jim nodded. "Yeah, it was kinda funny. I laughed."

"Did you?" Michael asked, sounding surprised. "Did he?"

"Yeah," Karen said.

"Oh. I don't think Brian wanted you to find it funny." He leaned over confidentially. "He was kinda mad at you."

"How long had you known Brian?" Jim asked.

"About three months. New recruit."

"You never met the other Brian Mulhaney?" Karen asked.

"Nah."

"Your group isn't much for originality, is it?"

"How d'you mean?"

"Everyone we've met, none of them have been going by their own name."

"Why should they? Just because you were born to be a certain person, born into a family and a life, that doesn't mean you need to be loyal to that. When things go bad—we're people, we're _versatile_. All we have to do is move, change our name, and poof, we're someone else. There's so many people, it's easy to lose yourself."

"Yeah, but you're picking people who exist. Or who died."

"What can I say? Like you said, we're not very creative, right?"

"Tell us about when you first met Josiah," Jim said.

"Like I said, he killed my parents."

"Before that."

"You want me to start "once upon a time," too?" he asked snottily.

"If you want," Jim said with a smile.

"Don't look at me like that."

"Why not?"

"I'm not some little kid you're humoring. This is serious."

Jim sat on the edge of the table next to Michael, his arms crossed. "Believe me, I know how serious this is."

"When did you meet Josiah?" Karen asked.

"About three years ago."

"Where?"

"Michigan. I was staying with my uncle while my mother went through chemotherapy. The parents didn't think I could handle it. I went to the airport—I was bored. I missed my own school, was thinking of trying to catch a flight back... I was just wandering around and there he was. Turns out he was from pretty much the same place and we got to talking. Science and philosophy especially. Next thing I knew we were on a flight to New York."

"You'd known this guy a couple hours and you invited him home?" Karen asked.

"No. He invited _me_ home. I stayed with him a couple months before I took him to meet my parents. You mind if I say they were _dying_ to meet the man who'd saved my life?"

"Saved your life?" Karen asked. "Aren't you getting a little melodramatic?"

"There are many different levels of living. It's all philosophic." Michael lowered his voice, making it sound almost wimpy and sad. "How would you feel if you were sixteen and both your parents suddenly died? This way it wasn't sudden; I knew exactly what was coming and—" He raised his voice and said, "I rejoiced!"

Jim looked away, shaking his head. After a minute he looked back. "You were still a minor," Jim said. "Didn't social services have anything to say about _both_ of your parents dying?"

"I slipped through the system. Lucky me," Michael said.

"When did you meet Samantha?"

"Samantha? I really barely knew her. I met her a couple years ago, I think. But Uncle Josiah's such a popular guy—girls throw themselves at him all the time. Hard to keep them all straight."

"So she was sleeping with him?" Karen asked.

"He's the messiah. He sleeps with everyone. Female, that is."

"She wasn't anything special?"

"He liked her, sure."

"Did he kill her?"

"Sure did. When you're favored by the messiah, you don't go sleep with another man."

"He was jealous?"

"He doesn't get jealous."

"How'd he kill her?"

"Poisoned her. Then he had me shoot her."

"If the poison's untraceable, why shoot her?" Karen asked.

"She wasn't dead yet. It still hurt."

"You said earlier he didn't know where she was," Jim said.

"Her _body_. He wanted her body."

"Then why'd he leave her?"

"That was my fault. Something came up and when I went back to collect her, you all were there."

"You in trouble for losing her body?"

"It's just a body. Meaningless," Michael said with a shrug in his voice.

"Then why'd he want it?"

"He just did. I don't know why."

"And her cousin?" Karen asked.

"Cousin?"

"Glenn."

Michael made a questioning grunt.

"Glenn Bartlett. We found him on the stairs of an old mansion, wearing a t-shirt that said, "Owls aren't pussycats.""

"Sht. That was her cousin?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah."

"I didn't know that." Michael cleared his throat. "Josiah asked me to clear him out. Thought Samantha was sleeping with him. But if that was her cousin… and not the right guy… too bad."

"So you killed him," Jim said.

"I didn't have any choice. You don't question Josiah or you don't see daylight ever again—no offense. Bad euphemism."

"You'd testify to all this?"

"Yeah."

"You know where we can find him?"

"Sometimes."

Jim listened as Karen passed him the notebook across the table.

"It'll be a few days before he's available."

"You his secretary?" Karen asked.

"No. I just don't know where he is until Monday and Tuesday."

"So, Michael Hershach, what were you doing at that warehouse this afternoon?" Jim asked.

Michael laughed a little. "I'm the one who called you and told you to go there. Josiah knew you were looking for him. He thought it best to head you off."

"Why the warehouse?"

"Because he's cleared out of there."

"Not entirely," Karen said. "What about the chemicals?"

"So he's just human. He can make mistakes or just not think of everything, right?"

"But to set us up to go there—he'd have to be pretty sure of what he was doing."

"He trusted me too much. I lost the fight."

"And now you're in trouble?"

"I'm in trouble either way, right? But if you get to Josiah first, I might live."

* * *

Marty stretched as he walked out of the observation room, relieved to take a break. He couldn't imagine how Dunbar was holding up after the beating he'd taken, then this long interview.

"Hey," Karen said, "this kid. I think I saw him hanging out on the sidewalk when Samantha disappeared."

"You sure?" Jim asked.

"We were eight stories up, but his mannerisms… Hair color… I think it's him."

Karen ran off for coffee while Jim locked the door to the interview room. Marty fell into his desk chair, hitting his knee in the process. He swore under his breath and rubbed the sore spot, even as he kicked the offending desk.

"Hey, Marty," Jim called over. "Do me a favor?"

"What?"

"What's this guy look like?"

Marty rolled his eyes. He moved over toward the door of the interview room and peeked in. Tom sidled up next to them and Marty looked over to see Tom watching, curious. Mary didn't want to be the object of anyone's curiosity, so he just grunted.

Jim was rubbing his eye, carefully avoiding the bruise that was forming. "Too much to ask?" Jim said. He shrugged. "Doesn't matter."

"He's young," Tom put in. "Skinny. About six foot—"

Jim waved Tom off. "Forget it. That much I know."

Marty closed his eyes briefly, fighting his better nature. He listened as Jim started to walk away. It sounded like he was limping. Marty's eyes flew open to confirm it. Yeah, Jim was limping, but he wasn't about to let on if he was really hurt. Marty wondered if he was okay. First the shoulder, now limping… Was he really taking it in stride, or was he trying to be a hero and prove to them still that he could do his job?

Then again, he had thought first of Karen at the warehouse. He could have just assumed Karen was okay and asked Marty for help, but he didn't. Karen's safety was Marty's main concern, seemed to be Jim's main concern, too.

"Dunbar," he said and waited for Jim to turn back. "He looks like the guy from Happy Days."

One of Jim's eyebrows crooked up. "The Fonz?"

"Nah, the other one. Ron Howard's character. The face is a little rounder, more wholesome, even. He looks like a little cherub," he said with a small dose of sarcasm.

Jim nodded, his head to the side, thinking it over.

"This kid's kinda geeky and well-meaning, you know?"

Dunbar laughed. "He meant well while he was fighting me?"

"I don't know if he meant well, but we all know you deserved it."

Jim sighed and walked away back to his desk. He pulled out his chair, holding onto a rib while he sat.

Marty bit his lip. The words had been out of his mouth before he thought them through. "You can tell he thought it was for a good cause," he amended, too late. He'd meant to just keep an eye on Jim, not go back to being an ass all the time. They had to work together. The comments kept coming, even though he tried to stifle them.

"Great." Jim's face was blank as usual. He pulled out a bottle of aspirin.

"He looks better than the other guy," Marty tried.

"How?"

"Like he's actually here."

* * *

"So when Samantha was in protective custody," Karen started, "what were you doing at the building?"

"Delivering a message."

"But you barely knew her."

"Messages. I saw a lot of her. We didn't talk. We weren't friends."

"What was the message?" Jim asked.

"Come home."

"Did she?"

"Must have."

Jim took his time walking to the far corner of the room where Karen had told him a chair was sitting. He'd asked her before they went back in and now he needed to sit.

"Is Uncle Josiah trying to father an heir?" he asked as he walked.

Michael laughed. "He thinks the world is overpopulated."

"Does he father a lot of kids?"

"He's protected, I'm sure, detective. What's this have to do with anything?"

Jim pulled the chair over across the table from Michael.

"I'm glad you finally found that," Michael said. "Doesn't do to have you standing for hours when you're so obviously in pain."

"Michael," Jim said, slamming the chair onto the floor then sitting. "Who would have tried to kill Samantha for getting pregnant?"

"I dunno. Maybe it was just some random person."

"Uh huh, that's what she said, too."

"See?"

"Coincidence?"

"It happens."

"Twice?"

"This is New York…"

"Do you know anything about her family?" Karen asked.

"No. She rich?"

"Do you know why she'd make a bunch of tapes to make her mom think she was going around Europe with Josiah and a church group?"

"She's always been a little storyteller. She liked to talk. She _loved_ to lie."

"And?" Karen asked.

"And I don't know."

"What do you know about Pipsqueak?"

"Just a street name. You gotta go incognito sometimes," he said with a grin.

"Don't give me that look," Karen said.

"You think I'm too young for you, is that it?"

Jim almost laughed, but he kept a straight face and said, "Michael, on topic. What's this poison?"

"I don't know. It kills people and dissolves in the blood. Josiah invented it."

"Yeah? What forms does it take?"

"I dunno. I've never seen it before. Josiah always administers it."

"Who's your friend?" Karen asked.

"Antoine?"

"The guy we arrested with you."

Michael stood up and stretched. "Antoine. He's pretty harmless. Dumb as a post, you know. Half the time he can't remember his own name," he said almost smugly. "Can I go now?"

Jim found himself laughing. He shook his head with a big grin. "Sit back down and stay a while; you're not going anywhere."

"But I told you everything—"

"You admitted to killing at least one person and being an accessory to others. Even if it wasn't your idea, even if your own life was in danger, you're still responsible for their deaths. Do you understand that?"

"But—"

"Sit," Jim invited casually.

Michael didn't seem overly thrilled to hear they weren't going to let him go. He shifted in his chair, over and over. Jim waited patiently and was glad Karen did the same. "You know, you worked me over pretty good," Michael finally said. "Can I get an aspirin?"

Jim glanced over at Karen. He stood up. "Yeah… I'll go get you a glass of water, too."

"You don't have to," Michael said. "She can go."

"Nah."

"You're hurt."

"I can get an aspirin. You stay put."

Jim opened the door to find Fisk waiting for him. "What's his game?"

"I don't know."

"You want Tom and Marty in there?"

"Karen can watch him, you guys keep an eye on him from the observation room, if he tries anything, we're ready." Jim held a cup under the water cooler and pressed the button over the spigot.

"He was awfully quiet before he asked for an aspirin." Fisk followed Jim back to his desk.

"Wouldn't you be quiet for a minute while you decided whether or not to kill yourself?" Jim tapped two aspirin into his palm.

"You think that's what he's planning?"

"Is it a coincidence he asked for aspirin?" Jim held up the bottle, tilting it so the pills jiggled, then tossed it back in his desk. Suddenly he froze while closing the desk drawer and thrust his hand out toward the boss, open to reveal the aspirin. It was the same bottle he'd used earlier, but… "Aspirin, right?"

"Yeah…"

"Take a good look. 'Cause if this kid was looking for files and moving things, it's not that hard for him to slip a few things into a bottle that look like aspirin." Jim couldn't believe how fast his heart was racing, keeping pace with his mind as it ran through scenarios.

Fisk grabbed his hand and took a good look. "These are." He pushed past Jim to the desk and removed the bottle, dumping the contents onto the desk. Jim listened to him sifting through, dropping pill after pill into the bottle. He shuddered as each pill dropped hollowly into the container. "Let's just hope he never thought that way," Fisk muttered. "You all keep an eye out." He screwed the lid back on and dropped the bottle back into the drawer, slamming it shut. "These are okay."

Jim let his eyes close with relief that washed over him so thoroughly he wanted to melt onto the floor.

"You took some?" Fisk asked.

Jim nodded.

"We'll search this place top to bottom tomorrow, just in case. You're right, if they were looking at files, it's not much of a stretch that they could be covering their tracks, trying to get us off the trail."

"I better get back," Jim said.

"We're ready, if you need help."

"Thanks." Jim clasped the pills tightly.

Jim stepped into the room behind Michael. He reached over the kid's shoulder and set down the cup. "Here." He held out his hand.

"It's okay, I have one."

"Watch!" Karen yelled from the other side of the room near the two-way mirror. "_The_ watch," she clarified, moving quickly around the table.

Jim grabbed the kid, pinning his arms down. The cast thunked against the chair. He heard the cup drop, hitting the table as he yanked Michael to his feet. Water spilled and dripped slowly to the floor.

"It's hollow," Karen told Jim.

Jim felt her take the watch from Michael's wrist and pat him down.

The door opened behind him and Tom, Marty, and Fisk hurried in.

"We'll take him down to the Tombs and keep him on suicide watch," Fisk said. "You'll have officers watching you all night. Don't get any ideas."

"I got him," Tom said just to Jim's left.

Jim felt Tom's hands taking Michael's arms and relinquished the kid. Two years before, he never would have given up custody to a younger detective, but now he let go and stepped out of the way.

He let his hand explore the two cuts on his face that had probably been made by that watch.

* * *

Jim leaned against the wall outside the interview room.

"It's a good start," Fisk said.

"I think he's a prime candidate for an insanity plea," Jim said.

"Insanity or no, we'll get his statement in the morning when he cools down."

"We're lucky he's still alive," Karen said. "Jim, if you hadn't broken his wrist, he'd have had those pills out of that watch a whole lot faster."

Jim shook his head. "I should have broken his other wrist. Then maybe he wouldn't have had the watch anymore at all."

"You still holding up okay?" Fisk asked. "It's been a long day."

Jim tried to pull himself away from the wall, but his body wouldn't move. "I'm good," he said. He grinned up at the boss. "I thrive on this stuff."

Fisk chuckled. "Right."

"I don't like him," Marty said, walking back up after dropping Michael down in the Tombs.

"We're not asking you to take him to a tea party," Karen said.

"I don't believe a word he says."

"Good for you."

"You know what he did on the way to the Tombs? He cried. He asked me for a hug."

"That's 'cause you're such a sympathetic guy, Marty," Jim said.

"Then the kid started yelling out Bible verses, you know the one about "now though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death"? Only he ended it with, we're all doomed 'cause Uncle Josiah's gonna kill us all."

"If anything he's saying is true, it looks like it all goes back to Uncle Josiah," Tom said. "Looks like Gandhi's gone bad."

* * *

Jim leaned against the windowsill behind Karen.

"Michael Hershach, 23," Karen read. "Didn't he say he was 19?"

"And a half," Jim added.

"That's a pretty specific lie," Tom said.

"Keep reading," Fisk ordered. "We'll hash out the details later."

Karen dropped something, causing Jim to jump in the silence. She swore. "He went to the same high school as Samantha Whittleton for about a year."

"If he knew her, why'd he give us his real name?" Tom asked. "'Cause I'm not so sure he really was just Josiah's right hand man."

Jim leaned back in his chair. "You know, I think he honestly thought we were going to let him go, and not look into his background."

"Why?" Tom asked skeptically. "He had to know we wouldn't take it all at face value."

"I think because he was cooperating. Because Uncle Josiah's the big fish here. If he thought all we wanted was Josiah, he wouldn't be too worried about covering himself."

"Hey, boss," Karen said. "They took DNA from this kid while they were fixing him up, right?"

"Right."

"Can we run a paternity test on Samantha's kid? I just have a hunch…"

"Sure. What else?" Fisk asked.

"No criminal record. Studied chemistry in college, but never finished. Looks like he won a lot of debate awards, good at arguing. A couple awards for young entrepreneurs. No real job history. All his knowledge is in theory, no practice."

"What's his status? Missing? Dead?" Fisk asked.

"Nothing reported."

"I'll get in touch with his family tomorrow morning."

"Uh…" Karen started awkwardly. "His parents really are dead. He was an only child. Mom died of complications to cancer, dad of heart disease. Looks like his grandmother's still alive, though. And an uncle."

Fisk grumbled. "That's my favorite part of this job, calling the grandparents of some overachiever and telling them their perfect kid has gone off the deep end."

"Glad it's you and not me," Tom said.

"Let's call it a night," Fisk said. "We all need some sleep."

Jim shook his head. "One last order of business," he said.

"Yeah?" Fisk almost sounded annoyed.

"I have to run Richard White through the system or it'll drive me crazy all night."

"Richard White?" the lieutenant asked.

"AKA, Rico Artez. We finally got DeLana to talk."

"Oh. Good. I'm heading out, though."

"Night, boss," Jim said.

"See you tomorrow."

Jim settled into his chair. If he was sore now he couldn't imagine how he'd feel after a night in bed. He stretched before putting in his earpiece and getting to work.

"Richard White, convicted felon," Jim said quietly a few minutes later. He wasn't sure what the other detectives were up to, just that they'd stuck around with him for a while.

"_What_?" Karen asked incredulously.

"That's what it says."

"What for?"

"Murder."

"No," Karen said.

"If that's what it says," Marty argued.

"No," she argued back. "He wouldn't kill anyone."

"Karen," Jim said calmly. "You never can tell with some people. They don't all come with a rap sheet a mile long."

"Just read the rest," she said.

Jim recited from memory instead of playing the file over. He gestured to the computer. "Says he murdered some old lady and died in prison."

"We know he's not dead, so who says he was ever actually convicted of anything? What if the file was tampered with? Like our files?"

Jim nodded. "I'll give you that much." He turned off his computer. "That's enough for tonight. I'm headed home."

"You want a ride?"

Jim checked his watch. It was after eleven; he wasn't sure of the train schedule from the precinct to home that late at night, and he really didn't want to wait around, not in the condition he was in, so he nodded. "Sure, thanks." Jim slid his laptop into his bag. He'd have to fix the rest of the squad tomorrow, move the furniture back into place then.

"What do you think?" Karen asked in the car.

"About Rico?"

"No, about Michael."

Jim shook his head. "I'm not done with him yet. Not by a long shot. What do you think?"

"I wouldn't trust him."

Jim grinned. "Of course not. You never trust a criminal."

"Do you think he's telling the truth about Uncle Josiah? And how he killed Michael's parents?"

Jim thought it through over several blocks, listening to the car and thinking. He could hear the tires on the street, feel the pot holes, hear other cars passing. "I think that man is capable of anything. But did he actually do it?" He shook his head. "I don't know," he said slowly.

* * *

Jim got home and reached for the light switch out of habit. He was surprised to find the light already on. "Christie?" he said quietly, trying to scan the apartment for sounds.

"Yeah?" she mumbled, sounding half-asleep.

"You didn't have to wait up." He dropped his keys off and went to the couch without taking off his coat or Hank's harness.

"I wanted to," she said.

"It's late." He helped her stand, exhausted himself. She snaked an arm around his back and he winced as she put pressure on one of his bruised ribs, but she didn't seem to notice. His free hand explored what it could reach, finding her already in a nightgown with a robe over the top, the silk robe, long and red if he remembered correctly. She'd bought it for Valentine's Day one year.

"How'd it go?" she asked, burying her face in his shoulder.

"I'm tired and so are you. We can talk in the morning."

"Okay. Let me go get the light."

"I'll get it," he offered, sitting her on the bed and pulling off the robe. "I need to take care of Hank."

He turned the light off first before unharnessing Hank and getting him a fresh bowl of water. Some days he didn't even think of light switches, others he found himself turning lights on and off out of habit, his hand on the switch before he realized what he was doing. He must really be tired, he thought, to be trying to turn on the light now. It had probably been a month since the last time he'd done it.

Hank lapped at the water. It was a clumsy sound and Jim knew he should wait for the dog to finish, then wipe up around the bowl, but Hank had been napping on and off all day. The dog was awake, but Jim could feel the extra hours of interrogating, along with the beating he'd taken, and all the energy he'd poured into it in concentration, not to mention the psychological repercussions of having someone move things around the squad. He needed sleep.

Jim crawled into bed a few minutes later, having changed and checked for other lights, making sure the apartment was dark. Christie was already asleep and he gathered her close, kissed her neck, and fell asleep easier than he had in years.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

Jim awoke to his phone ringing. The sound was faint and he realized he'd left it in his coat pocket when he'd come home. He groaned as he sat up, muscles aching and bruises sore. His knee snapped as he put it over the side of the bed, but it felt better after that. He limped into the living room slowly, the phone still ringing.

"Dunbar," he mumbled when he fished it out.

"It's Karen. Get ready. We found Artez."

"You're joking, right? Isn't it still dark out?"

"So what?" she asked.

"What time is it?"

"4:12. I'll pick you up."

"Where'd they find him?"

"Hospital. He had another seizure."

"But he's still alive?" Jim asked incredulously, his mind finally waking up and wrapping around the new information.

"Yep."

"Okay." He groaned as he stretched the sleep out of his body. "Come get me, I'll be ready."

"You know, you shouldn't party all night if you can't get up in the morning," Karen said, then hung up.

"Don't I wish," Jim mumbled and limped off for a hot shower.

He groaned under the pulsating water. He turned his back away from the spray, but that didn't help, as it hit one of his ribs. He thought of counting every sore spot, but decided he didn't want to know.

Was it worth it?

He opened his eyes and stared at the sound of water coming from the shower head. He turned his head away, thinking it over carefully.

It was definitely worth it. This is what he'd wanted, this was what he'd been afraid he'd never have again. Not so much fighting a perp, but having control over a bad guy and making the world a better place. Getting a low-life off the street. Making himself useful. Even when he'd started back at the precinct, he'd thought he'd never have a chance to prove he was useful. Even if it had scared Karen, even if it had scared him, he'd proven he could do it. Even if it scared his wife, even though he was a little banged up, it was worth it. Back on the job, locking up guys like Michael, trying to help girls like DeLana and her kids. What better way could he spend his time? Sitting around the apartment, getting his pension for not doing anything? Going out and trying to find a different job? That wasn't for him. Cases like these, no matter how difficult, were what made the job worthwhile.

And now he was almost excited, even as he avoided the lump on his head while he shampooed his hair, that he would get to talk to Artez again. The guy wasn't dead.

He yawned. A couple more hours of sleep might have been nice, but he was ready.

He tiptoed into the bedroom. He used to have to turn on the closet light to match his clothes before a middle-of-the-night case like this, and Christie would always wake up, worried about him going out, fussing over him. He didn't need the light now; always look on the bright side of life, he thought. Jim felt the little Braille labels and pulled out a suit, matching shirt, and tie. He dressed in the dark of the bathroom with the door closed so Christie wouldn't hear. She didn't need to worry right then, not after she'd been up waiting for him so late.

Hank had fallen asleep somewhere. He'd jumped up and followed Jim when Karen called, and again when Jim went in to take a shower. But now… Jim listened carefully. He didn't want to wake up his wife by calling the dog.

At the desk he reached into the drawer for his badge, but found nothing. He paused, thinking. It must still be in the pocket of his overcoat. Along with his cane. He let his keys jingle when he picked them up.

Jim heard Hank rise and shake himself in the bedroom, then come padding out, his toenails clicking on the floor as he came to see what was going on. Jim picked up the harness and Hank bounded over, raring to go. He licked Jim's hand, then waited patiently for Jim to click the harness in place.

Jim paused at the door, thinking of leaving a note for Christie, then decided it was early enough there was a chance he'd be back before she even woke up.

* * *

"I got coffee," Karen said when Jim climbed into the car. "Are those bags under your eyes or just another bruise?" she joked.

Jim smiled. He reached for the cup holder by his left knee. Karen had only had to direct him there the first time she brought coffee. "Thanks," he said.

Hank yawned in the back seat.

"Sorry, Hank," Karen said, glancing over her shoulder, "no coffee for you."

"We're all going to deserve a long nap when this is all over," Jim said, staring out the side window, his head against the headrest. Karen glanced at him again in the darkness and saw his eyes were closed.

She poked him. "Don't fall asleep on me."

He grimaced. "Ow."

"Another bruise?" she asked sympathetically.

"There will be now." He smiled a little, though he didn't turn toward her.

Karen smiled as she drove through sparse traffic on her way to the medical center.

"Tired?" he asked.

"Nah, you?"

"Not at all."

Karen yawned.

"I heard that," Jim said, laughing.

She glanced over at him, then stopped at a stoplight. "You don't seem much worse for wear," she said.

He shrugged. "What do you want me to look like?"

"I didn't say you don't _look_ worse for wear." She watched him smile, glad she could barely see the scratches on his face. "I just meant, you must be feeling better?"

Jim was shaking his head, pondering the question as he set the coffee cup back in the holder. He rubbed his hands together. "I wasn't feeling that bad to begin with," he admitted.

She laughed. "I don't believe you."

"No, really," he said. "I'm sore, yeah, but Karen…" He turned in his seat, struggling against the seatbelt so he could face her. "I can do my job."

He sounded happy. She wanted to look at him, but she couldn't bring herself to turn her head. She just concentrated on the light traffic. "I know," she finally said. He was grinning when she turned finally to look at him.

"Any doubt I had…" He shook his head. "Especially after giving up my gun." He turned forward and leaned his head back against the headrest.

"Good," she said shortly, "but meanwhile, we're working a case and my partner can barely move."

He laughed and she joined in.

* * *

"May I help you?"

It sounded like a nurse. Jim waited for Karen to speak up. She usually introduced them, but Jim suddenly found he wasn't even sure Karen was next to him. He quickly pulled out his badge and flashed it. "My name's Detective Dunbar. I'm looking for one of your patients."

"Let me take you to the desk. The secretary can look up the room number for you," she said. She sounded like a seasoned nurse, older than Jim. "But it's best if you leave your dog in the hall, or the nurse's station."

"Right, I know." He followed her, listening for Karen, but he still didn't hear her. He could feel his muscles tensing as he wondered what had happened to her.

"Here we are," the nurse said.

"Thanks." He could hear people moving to both sides of him.

"To your right," she said, then walked off.

Jim turned and reached out, feeling the counter, smooth like marble, but not as cold. It felt shiny. He held his badge out again. "My name's Detective Dunbar, I'm looking for a patient." He waited for someone to acknowledge him.

"Oh," a girl said. "Let me get my supervisor." She sounded young and nervous, like some of the candy stripers he'd met when he was in the hospital.

"Fine," he said and listened to her get up out of a chair that popped when she rose. Probably a swivel chair that didn't work right anymore.

"Detective?" a woman asked.

Jim showed his badge one more time then slipped it into his pocket. "I'm looking for a patient who could be going under either Richard White or Rico Artez." He heard her start typing.

"Richard White is in room 212."

"Thanks."

She cleared her throat. "Uh, detective…"

"Yeah?"

"You know," the woman said, "we didn't refuse him treatment. We're not just going to let a man die."

"But?" Jim prompted.

"But when we ran his name and social security number, looking for insurance—"

"He doesn't have any."

"He's dead."

Jim tilted his head to the side. "I really can't tell you for sure whether or not he's alive, not at this point."

"Well, I can tell you, the man who's here? He's alive."

Jim nodded with a small smile.

"Jim!" Karen called from down the hall.

He thanked the lady once more, then turned to wait for Karen. "Where'd you go?" he asked when she caught up.

"I stopped to talk to one of the officers who found him. I told you to hold up. Didn't I?"

"No." Jim thought back, then shook his head. "At least, I don't think so." He grinned. "It's five in the morning, who knows."

Karen chuckled. "They found him in an alley. He fell against a trashcan and kept kicking it."

Jim grimaced. "He's lucky, then. That someone heard and called an ambulance."

"He's just down this hall up here," Karen said.

Jim followed her and chuckled to himself. "I was wondering if you fell asleep in the elevator. Or maybe you were kidnapped by Uncle Josiah's henchmen."

"And you just kept going?"

"You can take care of yourself, right?"

"Right."

"And someone has to finish this case."

"It's about time. I can't wait." She paused and touched his arm. "Uh, here it is."

Jim took a step back and made Hank sit. He stretched a little.

"Double espressos when we leave," Karen said.

"I'm game. Either that or a nice scotch."

She giggled. "That's not funny."

He smiled. "Shall we?"

"Yeah."

He followed her footsteps into the room. She excused an officer from watching Artez. "Remember us?"

"How could I forget?" Artez asked hoarsely.

"Jim, chair," Karen said quietly.

Jim moved to where she was standing and reached out. He gingerly eased himself down, having forgotten to take any pain killers before he left. The relaxing shower was wearing off and he found he was stiffening up again.

"You don't look so good," Artez said.

Jim nodded. "I feel worse. How about you?" He listened as Karen pulled up another chair.

"I think I look great."

Jim nodded. "You up for a conversation?"

"What the hell, you only live once, right? Go ahead."

"Where'd you go?" Karen asked. "And how'd you get out of jail and did you know the guy who got you out and why's Uncle Josiah trying to kill you?"

"You owe us some answers," Jim said.

"I know. But Uncle Josiah's not trying to kill me."

"He killed Samantha," Karen said.

"No, he didn't."

"And he ordered you to be broken out of jail."

"No…"

Jim sighed. "Don't do this, Artez." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands over his face for a second. "We're not stupid."

"But he didn't."

"Then why'd you tell us he did?" Jim looked up at him, eyebrows raised. "You told us to look into Pipsqueak, which is the name Uncle Josiah used on the street for years."

"No…" Artez sounded genuinely confused. "I told you to look into Pipsqueak, yeah—"

"And that's Uncle Josiah."

"No. It's some kid. He worked for Josiah, but he stopped."

"Who is he?" Karen asked.

"Pipsqueak."

"Yeah, who is he?"

"That's all I know."

"What's he look like?"

"He's this skinny kid, young, in his twenties, reddish-blond hair."

"Michael," Jim said.

"I never knew his real name."

"Why's Michael—Pipsqueak—trying to kill you?"

"I don't know exactly. I'm guessing 'cause I was seeing Samantha."

"Did he kill Samantha?" Karen asked.

"Yeah. Then he sent some guy to break me out of jail. I don't know why. I thought he'd kill me, but I never got to see Pipsqueak. They told me to stay away from you and maybe I'd live. They were gonna be watchin' me."

Jim looked over at Karen. "You don't think it was just to keep us from talking to Artez and finding anything out, do you?"

"I dunno," she said.

"What could I tell you?" Rico Artez asked, shifting in his hospital bed.

Jim looked back at him with an incredulous look. "That Uncle Josiah isn't Pipsqueak."

"So?"

Jim turned back to Karen. "What's his game, you think?"

"I think he's crazy," Rico said. "Anyone who's trying to frame Uncle Josiah and bring him down, that's crazy."

Jim nodded. "So this guy broke you out of prison. Did you know who he was?"

"Yeah. His name was Reggie, but he told me to call him Brian. I'd met him a long time ago, but he told me I was wrong. I know faces, though. It was him. I think that's why he let me go, instead of taking me straight to Pipsqueak."

"Reg Schmidt?" Karen asked.

"You know him? I dunno, I don't really remember names as well as faces."

"Okay, so Reggie," she said, "breaks you out of jail on orders from Pipsqueak, who's trying to bring about the fall of the greatest messiah of our age. Then what?"

"Then I've been bouncing from shelter to shelter. Some of them I couldn't get in because there were people there what knew me, you know. They knew I wasn't friends with Uncle Josiah anymore, so I wasn't welcome."

"Tell us about Samantha," Jim said.

"What do you want to know?" Artez asked.

"How'd you meet Samantha?" Karen asked.

"In the hospital. I was going through a little rehab—I'd gotten hurt during one of my episodes and my insurance wasn't gonna cover me anymore and I was pissed and throwin' things and then Samantha was there, offerin' to help. She said her Uncle offered mental, physical, and financial aid and how could I pass it up."

"What was she doing there, in the hospital?"

"She said she was volunterring. Helpin' people like me. She said she was like that nun… what's her name."

"Mother Theresa?" Karen supplied.

"Yeah, her."

"You believed her?"

"Sure. Especially when she got me free meds to help with the seizures. She wasn't just lyin' and saying she wanted to help. She was helpin'.

"We started sleepin' together, but she said I shouldn't start thinking of us like an old married couple, cause'n she was spoken for. She said she had a duty to God."

"To God or to Uncle Josiah?"

"I kinda think she thought he was God."

"What about her family? Did you know anything about them?"

"No. She said she di'n have a family." He sounded like he was getting tired.

"Do you know anything about any tapes she made? Short messages?"

"No."

"Or why she'd have someone call up her mom and play them, even though she's dead?"

"No… She's callin' her mom still?"

"Yeah."

"Samantha's not mean like that, detectives. She wouldn't…"

"Okay, one last question, then we'll let you rest," Jim said.

"'Kay."

"Rico—Richard," Jim said. "We know your real name."

"Good for you. But that doesn't mean anything. It's just a name."

"What about the felony?"

"What felony?"

"The time you spent in jail?"

"I ain't never been arrested."

"You never killed an old lady and died in prison?"

"Wha—are you messing with me?"

Jim shook his head. "Just thought you should know about your record. If this really is you, someone has you listed as dead."

* * *

Jim opened the door and stepped out, running into a body. He put out his hands to steady it. "Excuse me," he said, pulling back when he felt something soft. He'd have to remember to not reach out and touch people when he didn't know how tall they were, or if they were male or female.

"I know you…" a girl said. She sounded like she was in her mid-twenties, but Jim couldn't place the voice. "You get in a bar fight?"

Karen stepped up behind Jim.

"Yeah, I know you!" She made a confused noise. "You both look a little… different."

Karen laughed. She slapped Jim in the arm. "It's that waitress you were flirting with!"

"What waitress? Oh!" He felt his face getting hot. "In the bar."

"Yeah," the girl said.

"Sorry," Jim said with a little smile. "Good to see you again, how are you?"

Karen poked him. "Enough small-talk." She turned back to the girl. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see Rico. Is that okay?"

"What do you want with him?" Jim asked, his suspicions rising. Rico was still an important witness; he wasn't going to let anything happen to the guy.

"I've been seeing him," she said.

"For how long?" Karen asked.

"About a year, on and off."

"So before his girlfriend was killed."

"Karen!" Jim reprimanded.

"You don't want her to know he was cheating? It's okay for guys to see more than one girl at a time?"

"Karen…"

"It's okay," the girl said quickly. "I knew."

"Did she?" Karen asked.

"Is he cheating on you?" the girl asked.

Jim blushed, but Karen laughed. "Not on me, he's not," she said emphatically.

"Enough about our dysfunctional relationship," Jim said.

"Yeah," the girl said slyly, "'cause it looks like you're married. But you're not," she said, turning to Karen.

Jim slid his left hand in his pocket. He turned to Karen. "This is awkward."

"You're married?" Karen asked, sounding mock-outraged.

Jim laughed.

"Nice dog," the girl said.

"He is," Jim answered.

"You mind if I ask what's going on?" the waitress asked.

"Come on." Jim reached out carefully and took her arm, turning her toward Artez's room.

"You're not going to feel me up again?" she asked.

Jim shook his head quickly.

"Jim!" Karen said.

"I didn't—I ran into her on the way out the door. That's it." He opened the hospital room door. "Rico?" He pushed the waitress in front of him.

"Lila!" Rico exclaimed, sounding happy.

"Are you okay?" She rushed forward toward the bed.

"Yeah, I'll be fine."

"Rico," Karen said, "did Samantha know you were cheating on her?"

"We weren't exclusive, I tol' you that. She kept trying to set me up on dates so I wouldn't get too attached to her."

"Does your dear friend here have anything to do with Uncle Josiah or Pipsqueak?" Jim asked.

"No."

"She safe?"

"Yeah." His voice softened as he said, "It's good to see you."

"We'll be back," Jim said. He turned to take Karen's arm, but she grabbed his hand out of the air.

"Be careful where you put that thing, Casanova," Karen said.

"Are you two going to be okay?" Lila asked. "I didn't mean to make any trouble."

"You didn't," Karen said.

Jim settled his hand on Karen's arm and turned for the door.

"Are you in some kind of trouble?" Lila asked Rico. "Is that why they were asking all those questions at the bar?"

Jim turned back and pulled his badge out. "Lila, we're trying to keep him out of trouble. And he needs a place to stay, if you have any room."

"Yeah. Of course," she said, suddenly nervous. "Everything okay?"

"We hope so. We'll be back later."

Karen opened the door and he followed her back into the hallway. Hank jumped up.

"Is it still dark?" Jim asked when the doors to the hospital slid open.

"Yup," Karen said.

He checked his watch after he let Hank into the car. "You going home?"

"I hadn't thought about it. You?"

"Let's just head down to the squad."

"Okay. The lieutenant wanted us to call when we were done here."

"I'll give him a call."

* * *

Marty and Tom walked into the squad a little after six.

"You get anything good?" Tom asked.

"Yeah," Karen said, "Michael's a name-dropper. It was him using the name Pipsqueak."

"Artez said he killed Samantha. He swears Uncle Josiah didn't have anything to do with it," Jim put in.

"Meaning maybe he's trying to frame Uncle Josiah," Tom said, "knowing the name would go straight back to him."

"And our cop friend, Reg Schmidt, we looked into him more. Artez gave us some more information. He used to work in jewelry, but got fired for tampering with the computers at the store and stealing money. He'd hack in and change the numbers after a big sale, take home the difference. Josiah found him straight from prison, but it looks like he was better friends with Michael."

"How'd he get Brian Mulhaney's badge?" Marty asked.

"No idea."

"I'd guess Michael stole it from Uncle Josiah," Jim said. "He had access to everything, right, if he's telling the truth. If he really was Uncle Josiah's right hand man, he'd learn a lot, he'd get ideas of his own, and he'd have access to anything he needed," Jim said.

"Great," Tom said. "I love it when they tell half the truth and doctor up the rest."

"The lieutenant wants to be here when we bring the kid back up," Jim said.

"Where is his sorry ass?" Tom asked.

"Tom," Karen reprimanded, laughing.

"We're here. Where's he?"

"Making phone calls," Jim said. "From home. In his pajamas."

"Good mental picture, thanks, Jim," Tom said sarcastically.

"He's seeing when we can get Artez released so we can talk to him in-house. And he said we need to expect Mrs. Whittleton this morning. She called him at home."

"Why?"

"She got another message from Samantha."

"That's cold, whoever's doing it."

"Yeah," Jim agreed.

"Karen's sleeping on her desk," Tom said. "Gonna start drooling any second."

"'M no'," Karen mumbled.

"Not such a bad idea," Jim said. He leaned back in his chair and slid down so he could rest his head on the back. He closed his eyes.

"Not you, too," Tom said.

"It's gonna be a long day, Tom," Jim said quietly. "We need to be able to think, don't we?"

"Is this kindergarten?" Fisk asked, stomping up. "Nap time?"

Jim groaned. "Five more minutes, Mom."

"Call me that again, I'll have your badge."

Jim heard him slap something on Marty's desk.

"What's that?" Jim asked without opening his eyes.

"My notes from my nice phone call with Samantha's mother." Fisk groaned and peeled off his coat. "Now I get to go call Michael's grandmother, too? Hell of a day."

Jim struggled to sit up and adjusted his tie. He ran his hands over his face and tossed his sunglasses on his desk. "Let's get it over with."

"You two talked to Artez? Was he any help?" Fisk asked. "I want some good news here."

"Yeah, he was helpful," Jim said.

"You're not just saying that?"

"You can't handle the truth? Yeah, he was helpful. Really."

Fisk pulled out a chair and flopped down. "Good."

"Sht," Marty said, flipping through the notes. "That is bad."

"Care to share with the rest of us?" Tom asked.

"It's not your normal phone call, not like before."

"Needless to say, Mrs. Whittleton was very upset," Fisk said. "She's on her way down here right now with a copy of the tape."

"Incoherent screaming?" Marty asked.

"Prepare yourselves."

"Why would Samantha make a tape of herself screaming in the first place?"

"Let's wait 'til we hear it before we begin speculating," Fisk said.

"You two gonna share?" Tom asked. "Or is this a private party?"

Jim heard Marty pass a paper over to Tom.

"Come on," Jim said. "There's two more of us."

"Patience, Dunbar," Marty said. "You'll get your chance."

"I can barely read this," Tom muttered.

Jim bit his lip.

"It was early, I was tired," Fisk said, then ran them through the gist of the conversation so they wouldn't have to struggle with his handwriting.

* * *

"Jimmy!"

Christie's voice was plaintive. He was afraid she'd been crying, but what for he couldn't tell. It was almost seven—her alarm would have just gone off. She would have rolled over, seeking a warm body beside her, eyes still closed, felt a cold and empty pillow.

"What's wrong?" he asked. He pushed himself out of his chair and hurried down the hall to the locker room for a little privacy.

"Where are you?"

"We found our missing witness."

"You went to _work_?"

"It is my job. We're in the middle of a case." He leaned against a locker.

"But you're hurt!"

He straightened up. He wasn't going to let anything support him, not even a locker. "I'm _not_ hurt," he said as quietly and authoritatively as possible.

"You couldn't take _one_ day—"

"No, I couldn't. I have a job to do!"

"If they can't let you take one day—"

"This has nothing to do with whether or not they let me do anything. You know me, Christie. As long as I can move, I'm not going to sit at home when there's a case to solve."

"It's getting too dangerous for—"

He pulled the phone away from his ear like it was trying to bite him. He wanted to swear at her, couldn't believe she was telling him—

"—without a gun," she finished.

"Excuse me? Not having a gun is what saved—"

"Once, Jimmy! Russo was right. This one time maybe not having a gun was a good thing, but it proves nothing. The rest of the time, without a gun—"

"Damn it, Christie, stop it. You and Marty both thought it would be best if I didn't carry a gun and now—I gave it up."

"A cop needs a gun."

"So I shouldn't be a cop anymore?"

"No! You shouldn't."

He swore again.

"I know you can't see yourself as anything but a cop, Jimmy, and I tried to be supportive."

"It's not like I never got a little banged up before," he said evenly after a minute. He'd been going to yell at her, ask _how_ she'd been supportive, plead his case for going back to work—but he'd spent a year doing that with her and the city and the department. The only reason she'd ever supported him was because she was sure higher powers would prevail and he'd get his pension and—then what, he wasn't sure. But she'd been sure he wouldn't get his job back; he'd been sure he would be able to get her to come around once he was back at work.

"Jimmy, I love you—"

"You're a cop's wife, Christie." He hung up and turned the phone off.

Jim turned around and suddenly realized he wasn't alone. "Hello?"

"Just me. Don't get your panties in a twist," Marty said.

* * *


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

"Here," Fisk said. He dropped a bunch of paper on Jim's desk.

"What's this?" Jim reached out and felt a stack of files.

"Yours is the only clean desk, sorry, Jim," Fisk said. "These are the files from the warehouse. No prints, so we get to look through them now. Good luck."

"Yeah, but are they even related to our case?" Karen asked.

"Take a look."

Jim lifted a couple files and held them in Karen's direction. She took them and he heard her rifle through the papers.

"The names are kinda familiar… Winston Glad… Sherman Houston… Abigaile Little…"

"They're all names from that list Rob Mulhaney faxed us," Jim said. "I ran them all through the computer. Every single last one of them came up dead."

"As dead as Richard White?"

"You kids have fun," Fisk said, walking off.

"So there's a chance these people are still alive?" Marty asked. He scooted his chair back to the side of Jim's desk and lifted a couple files.

"Shit," Karen said. "Their movements over the past year are all mapped out. Every family member and friend they're in contact with… Every alias. I don't believe it."

"So you found the mother load," Jim said. "We'll be able to contact all these people."

"Yeah, but why were the files there? I don't buy the bit about Uncle Josiah just being human and making a mistake. He knows what he's doing."

"Maybe…" Jim shrugged. "Maybe it's to prove what sort of power Uncle Josiah has, able to make all these people disappear. And to prove how sick he is, keeping an eye on them."

"But what were they doing there?"

"Maybe Michael had pangs of conscience before the fight?"

"You think he's _trying_ to set up Josiah? By planting evidence?"

"If he's killing people left and right and making people disappear, it's not that hard to bring him down. If you have the proof, it's easy to leave it lying around."

"Let's find these people and haul their asses up here," Tom said.

"I'm game," Jim said.

"I want to talk to Michael again," Karen said.

"Me, too."

"We'll run these files if you two want to go work him over a little," Tom said.

The phone rang and Karen picked it up. "Bettancourt," she said, then listened.

"I still don't trust a word he says," Marty said. "If he says he killed everyone, I won't believe him. And if he says Uncle Josiah killed everyone, I won't believe him."

"Great, Marty," Jim said. "You just discounted everything our only suspect has said."

"What, you believe him? You're pretty trusting."

"I'm not going to say he's a saint, but no one can lie about everything."

"Maybe he can. Maybe when he says Uncle Josiah killed Samantha, he means he killed her himself. And when he says he didn't know who Glenn Bartlett was, he did."

"You're twisting everything he said!"

"He's twisted enough on his own. I'm just saying—"

"Marty, you can't—"

"Guys!" Karen said, slamming down the phone. "Come on, Tom, couldn't you say something?"

"I'm not their baby-sitter," Tom said.

"Karen?" Jim asked, his hands clenched on the arms of his chair.

"The paternity test came back positive. Michael's the dad."

Jim stood up. "I'll let the boss know, then we'll head down."

"Jim…"

He stopped and waited, but didn't turn around.

"Marty… You guys, if Fisk catches you acting like this again, you're both going down the river, you know that, right?"

Jim squared his shoulders and opened Fisk's door. He told the boss what they'd found and asked if they could go visit Michael.

"Bring him up," Fisk said. "I want to see it, too."

* * *

"Feeling better?" Karen asked. She pulled out a chair at the table in the interview room.

"No. Should I be?" Michael asked sullenly.

"Last night you told us you didn't know what kind of poison Uncle Josiah was dealing with. Then you proceeded to pull some out."

"Maybe I thought that was really aspirin."

"Right."

"It was going to make all the pain go away, wasn't it?"

"Does it always look like aspirin?" Jim asked.

"Looks can be deceiving, don't you know that by now?"

"Just answer," Karen said.

"No. Some are liquid, some are put in chocolate—"

"Like for Samantha?" Karen interrupted.

Michael laughed sadly. "You should have seen her. "No, no, I can't eat that, I'm diabetic!"" he mimicked, then paused. "And I told her, "Honey, that's not gonna matter anymore.""

"Are you the one who gave her the poison?"

"No. I was just there for moral support."

Karen moved around the table, changing the subject by changing position. "Do you know what a paternity test is?"

"Yeah. That's where your kid does something so heinous you end up ripping out your hair and asking how you gave life to such a monster."

"You know you have a kid?"

"You're joking," Michael said blandly. He sounded like the night in jail had greatly depressed him.

"So how do you plead?" Karen asked.

"I plead virginity, detective."

"Why'd you try to kill yourself?" Jim asked.

"Because I wouldn't make a very good messiah. It's either me or him. And it's always him."

"That's not the way it works."

"What would you know?"

"The world doesn't—"

"This isn't the world! See, detective, you should have been a goner. At the church, I don't know how you managed as well as you did. Maybe Josiah took pity on you. But I wasn't going to. You started to leave. I stopped you."

"I remember bumping into someone," Jim said. He narrowed his eyes, thinking back.

"See, I'm not very good. If Josiah had bumped into you, you would have jumped off the nearest building."

It took all of Jim's strength to suppress the shudder. His stomach clenched, but he kept himself otherwise neutral, as if it didn't matter.

"Let's start at the beginning," Karen said finally. "How well did you know Samantha back in high school?"

"Barely," Michael said. "Pretty girl like that? So normal and voluptuous. What would she be doing with a criminal like me?"

"You were a criminal? In high school?"

"It's all predetermined. I was born with a criminal mind."

"You didn't have a choice?"

"God doesn't decide what you have for dinner every day. But that's about the only choice we get in this life."

"You're good at chemistry, right, Michael?" Jim asked.

"Yeah."

"So what's your part in all these drugs?"

"Assistant. I was still learning."

"And what all does Josiah deal in?"

"Mostly medications. The one poison, like you know."

"Any street drugs?"

"I wouldn't know."

"I'm just wondering why all his followers are so happy to have nothing."

"The power of the mind shouldn't be underestimated. You don't need a chemical boost in order to seem happy in the most dire circumstances."

"Do you like Josiah or not?" Jim asked.

"What's not to like?"

"You tell me."

"If you dislike a saint, you go straight to hell."

Jim turned to Karen. "Is that true?"

"I would doubt it," she said with a small laugh. "Not every saint was always… saintly."

Jim nodded and turned back to Michael. "In that case, you were good friends with him, right? Even if you didn't always agree with him. I'm just wondering what happened before you met up with me at the warehouse."

"What do you mean?"

"You've been planning something a long time. What is it, a hostile takeover? Why've you been dropping the name Pipsqueak? Obviously because you know it'll lead straight back to Uncle Josiah."

Michael grunted.

"And those files you planted? You had this all planned out, didn't you?"

"All it proves is he's not a nice guy," Michael said. "That's all I'm trying to prove."

* * *

Samantha screamed. She was crying as she yelled, "It's too late, too late," like she was getting attacked.

The tape was edited. She'd been talking to someone, but that person had been cut out of the tape.

She screamed again.

Then she laughed. "I knew it would be like this." She giggled. "Don't worry so much."

The message ended, then another one started. They'd called back repeatedly.

"Hi, Mom! Clem and I are doing great!" she said brightly.

Mrs. Whittleton said, "She was bi-polar. When she'd get depressed, it didn't matter what she said or who she hurt." She stood up and backed away from the tape recorder. "One day she'd love me to death, then later, she'd do anything in her power to hurt me for being such a bad mother." She sniffed. "So hearing her happy in one message, then angry, that's not a stretch."

The screaming started again and Mrs. Whittleton shuddered audibly.

Karen reached for the off button. "Do you have any enemies, Mrs. Whittleton? Besides your daughter?"

"What?"

"Maybe someone she would have conspired with? Because she didn't just make the tapes. Someone's still calling to play them. Who?"

"I assume it was someone Samantha knew."

"Why? Anyone she knew would know she was dead. They're not just covering for _her_; they're trying to hurt _you._"

"Do you know this kid?" Fisk asked, sliding a piece of paper across the table to Mrs. Whittleton.

There was a pause as she looked it over. "Yeah… He went to junior prom with Sam."

"His name's Michael?" Fisk said.

"Yeah."

Fisk made an affirmative grunt. "Do you know of any other contact besides junior prom?"

"He came around the house for a while, but my husband didn't like him. This was back when I was still married, before the affair. My husband threw him out—repeatedly."

"Why?" Fisk asked.

"Graham said Michael wasn't going anywhere. It wasn't that he was such a bad kid, but he wasn't good enough for our daughter. And sometimes he was just… obsessive."

"Do you think there's any chance he's using these phone calls to spite your husband for that?"

"His family moved away—what would he be doing with Samantha?"

"He's the father of your grandson… They got back together at some point."

* * *

He'd asked her because that's what every guy wanted to do. He'd married her because any guy would have, if she'd said yes. And she'd said yes. Maybe he'd half expected her to turn him down, but she said yes. What was he supposed to do, turn her down? Not likely. He'd chosen his wife and he was sticking to it. Any man would be proud of her.

She had her job and he had his. They lived their own lives, crossing paths when convenient. It suited them.

They fought sometimes. Every married couple fights. Jim wasn't an idiot, he'd known before he met her, the moment he first saw her, how little they would have in common. That was bound to create conflicts.

Somehow, married, he felt empty. Alone. More empty and alone than he'd ever felt as a bachelor. Maybe because he didn't have that option of picking out a new woman to learn about and taking her home at night if he chose. He just always went home. To the same woman. Who sometimes didn't seem to care whether or not he was there.

He'd found himself wanting more. Don't the rich always get greedy?

"Jim," Karen said.

Jim looked over at her, but she didn't say anything else. He couldn't believe how distracted he was. Usually he could keep his personal life completely separate and not even think about Christie at work. He needed that separation in order to do his job. But Christie's phone call that morning… "Damn it." He stood up. "Karen, I'm going out to lunch."

""Damn it, Karen," that's a nice answer," she said.

He set his jaw as he stopped with his coat half on. He wanted to say it again, but he finally just took Hank by the harness and walked away.

Christie's office was in an upscale, all-windows building. He'd been there a few times, but usually he asked her to meet him somewhere else. He had a hard enough time at parties, making small talk with those people; he didn't need to see them during the day.

Once inside, a secretary had asked if he needed help, calling over to him, then walking around something, probably a large desk, to get to him. He didn't remember where Christie's office was, so he stopped Hank and waited for the woman.

"I'm looking for the office of Christine Dunbar," he said.

The woman paused, probably looking him up and down. Jim was reminded of how they used to check him out before and wondered what was going through her narrow brain as she took in the dog and the cuts on his face, the bruise just under his eye. "Do you have an appointment?" she finally asked stiffly.

"If you don't show me her office, I'll find it myself," he replied.

"This way," she said.

Jim ordered Hank to follow. The sound of her high heels disappeared abruptly and Jim almost stopped walking, thinking she might have stopped even though Hank hadn't, but a step later his foot settled onto carpeting. He hadn't been prepared for how much the plush carpet would mute the sounds he'd been following. He forced the tension out of his shoulders and followed Hank, picking up a mild swishing sound from the way the woman walked.

She pushed open a door and he walked through. "He's here to see Mrs. Dunbar," she told someone, then walked away with a swish, back out the door that had just closed.

"Do you have an appointment?" a younger woman asked.

"No." He turned to face her, dropping Hank's harness and crossing his arms. He listened as she asked if Christie was busy because some man was there to see her.

"May I show you a seat?" she asked finally. He heard her hang up a phone.

"No thanks, I'll stand." He cracked his neck. "Tell her her husband's here to see her." He debated flashing his badge and muscling his way in, but instead he waited while she made the call.

"It'll be a few minutes. May I show you to a chair?"

"You don't want me standing over you?" he snapped. "If I want to sit, I'll find a chair. But I don't plan to be here long enough to make myself comfortable." He clenched his teeth, wondering what Christie was doing, who she was in there with, what they were talking about.

A door opened a minute later and he turned, hearing a couple people walk out and Christie's placating tones quietly apologizing.

"Jimmy?" Her hand was on his arm.

He took Hank by the harness. "Let's go in your office." He followed her without taking her arm.

"Jimmy, is everything okay?"

"I'm fine. _You know_ I'm fine."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"I came to talk. Don't you want to talk?"

"You don't look like you just want to talk."

"No?" He dropped Hank's harness and stepped away from the dog, then froze. "Did you move anything in here?"

"No."

He nodded. He could have just stood there and made them both uncomfortable, but he had to move.

"What do you want to talk about?"

"You called me at work." He stopped at the floor-to-ceiling bookcase on the right wall of her office and ran a hand over one of the shelves. A set of tiny marble figurines lined the shelf in front of books.

"Isn't that allowed?"

"You called me. I was busy. I'm working a case; do you even know what I do all day?" He turned one of the figurines toward her, then walked away.

"Fine. You came down here. I was busy. I had a meeting."

He sighed. "I'm not going to just stay home for a few bruises, Christie. This is my job and it's important. To me. Do you understand?"

"I shouldn't have called," she said, her voice icy. "I was worried."

"Great!" He threw up his hands, turning away from her. "If you can't handle it—"

"Who said I can't?"

"You did!"

"Maybe I thought, since this case hasn't been going anywhere, that just this once you could call in sick and let yourself get better."

"I am better!" He took a deep breath. "Just tell me what's wrong."

"What do you think is wrong?" she asked. That was one of her favorite questions and he was sure she used it to drive him crazy and prove to him that he didn't know everything.

He slammed a hand down on her desk, knocking over a picture frame. "Don't pull that today, Christie. Just tell me."

She was quiet a minute, then her voice was low. "I miss you," she finally said.

He narrowed his eyes, wishing he could see her. If he squinted… but he reached out to take her hand across the desk, where it seemed she was hiding, taking refuge.

She wouldn't take his hand. He left it there a moment, then dropped it back to the desk, using it to guide himself around to her. "Damn it, Christie," he said. She didn't move away from him. "What the hell does that mean, you miss me?"

"I miss you, the Jimmy you were when we first met."

He took her by the shoulders. "What changed?"

"Everything. Sometimes it's like you don't love me anymore."

"You know I love you."

"No, I don't. Why else would you—"

"How many times do I have to apologize?"

"I was so worried last night and you said we'd talk in the morning! But you weren't there!"

"Christie, I can't do much to prove I'm a good husband now. As for my job, I've done nothing to disprove that I can do that."

"I know." She was shaking. He could tell she was near tears. "But when Marty told me yesterday that you'd been hurt—I just couldn't stop remembering how it was right after you got shot. What if that happens again? What am I going to do if I lose you?"

Jim bit his lip and leaned his forehead against hers. "I don't know. But it's a chance you have to take."

"You don't know what it was like."

"No."

"You can't imagine yourself doing anything else?" she whispered.

"I'm a cop," he said and closed his eyes, concentrating on her breathing. "You know that. I'm good at what I do, Christie, and I enjoy doing it."

"And if you died doing it?"

"I think I'd be happy. I never really thought of that." He pulled back, but she wouldn't relinquish one of his hands. She moved up behind him and wrapped her arms around his stomach. "If I'd died at the bank…" He gave a low laugh. "I'd have hated Terry for it. But if I'd gotten the gunman off the street beforehand, I would have been happy."

"Even though you and I were fighting? There's more to your life than just your job, you know."

Jim paused. "At that point, I thought you would have been better off without me anyway. We'd been talking about a divorce…"

"But not about you dying."

"You never know how you'll go. Or when. Christie, I don't want to think about this." He turned around in her arms.

"I don't want to let you go."

He smiled down at her. "I'll have a hard time doing my job if you don't."

"I mean it, Jimmy. I don't want to see you get hurt again."

"I'm careful."

She squeezed him tighter. "I don't want to see you hurt."

"I'm not giving up my job."

"Then I'll have to trust you, won't I? And that's so hard."

"If you can."

"You don't make it very easy."

"I know." He finally put his arms back around her. "I'm sorry." He held her close. "Christie," he whispered into her hair, "I know I've made a lot of mistakes, but I'm trying."

"I know," she said.

"And I'll be careful, I promise."

She sniffled. "There's more to your life than just your job," she emphasized.

He ran a hand through her hair. Her long dark hair, he'd always loved the way she wore it, no matter the style. He'd always loved the way it flowed, the way it caught the light, the seduction when she turned quickly and it floated away from her shoulders. "I remember, when I first got home from rehab, your hair was the only thing I wanted to touch. Not books of Braille, not a cane, just your hair." He breathed deeply, the smell of her shampoo and her perfume. He closed his eyes and just let her overwhelm him, his hands lost, his senses floating. He didn't need to see her.

"You never told me that."

He swallowed hard. "There's a lot I can't tell you." Her hair was the only that that felt the same way it looked, the only thing he'd thought he wasn't missing out on right after he lost his sight. He couldn't see her eyes or her smile or watch her walk into a room and he'd been afraid he'd lost her to the blindness.

"I have to get back to work," she whispered.

Jim untangled his fingers and stepped back. He slapped his thigh. "Me, too." Hank jumped up.

Jim left the building, thinking how, of all the things Christie had ever said to him, when she said he shouldn't be a cop anymore, that's the one that hurt the most. Yet he still loved her. Maybe even more, for her honesty. All he could do was let her come to her own conclusion, and hope she stayed. He couldn't force it, not this time.

He headed Hank toward the nearest subway station, shivering in the cold. It was almost noon, but the temperature must have dropped since that morning. He couldn't feel the sun.

Christie had always been there, he thought. Even if she was unpredictable, even if he could never say or do the right thing, she was always there for him. And now, when she disagreed with him most, she was still going to be there for him. Even though he couldn't understand how it scared her, how she'd been affected by the shooting and him losing his sight, even though it all culminated with his job, she was still going to be there. He shook his head in awe. Galloway was wrong, she wasn't weak.

* * *

Jim settled into a chair in the interview room.

"You remember junior prom?" Karen asked.

"Hard to forget it."

"You went with Samantha?"

"Prettiest girl I ever met. Not to say I haven't seen other girls prettier, they just would never give me the time of day. Samantha was different, though." Michael sounded wistful.

"You knew her?"

"Intimately."

"Why lie about it?"

"The girl's dead. I didn't kill her, but I'm not about to muddle your brains with useless facts." The smirk was coming back into his voice, meaning he must have been feeling better.

"Gee, thanks," Karen said.

Jim leaned closer. "Tell us about Samantha."

Michael squirmed a second, then relaxed and leaned back. "Fertile girl," he said. "She perpetrated my first visit to an abortion clinic. Then she told her dad… she always told the wrong things to the wrong people. Which is why Josiah shut her up first thing—good kid, but she had to be taught not to say anything of consequence, especially seeing as she was one of his girls. It wasn't like she couldn't think, when he was done with her; she just couldn't really talk."

"How?"

"How would I know? Like I said, I wouldn't make a very good messiah."

"You knew her parents?" Karen asked.

"Of course. They had to take pictures of the happy couple, didn't they?"

"Were you mad at her father, for not wanting you two to go out?"

"Who wouldn't be? Is he dead?"

"No."

"Too bad."

"You want revenge?"

"Revenge? That's really no such thing. You don't feel better; an eye for an eye. Because it doesn't take away what you've already lost. Why bother?"

"I bet you could come up with a good reason to bother," Jim said.

"I doubt it. I've never been much for reasoning," Michael said.

"Samantha told her mom she was going to Paris, did you know that?" Karen asked.

"Just what you told me."

"Do you know why she would?"

"Her mom always wanted her to travel. Samantha almost died once, she was comatose a week for unregulated blood sugar. Her mom always wanted her to travel before she died, would have made the family happy."

"So, conceivably, if Samantha knew she was about to die, she might lie to her mom and say she was traveling?" Karen was walking around the room, tapping her notebook against her fingers like she did when she was thinking of a new notion. Jim waited to see what else she'd come up with.

"Maybe," Michael agreed.

"Do you have any idea why she'd make tapes of messages instead of calling outright?"

"No idea."

"Like, maybe it was just a joke and she hadn't planned on the messages getting back to her folks?"

"I don't pretend to conceive what's in Samantha's head."

"Does Josiah let you just use the phone anytime you want?"

"Josiah doesn't care about your family. Samantha didn't care about hers, either. She had a new family. There's no reason to call home."

"Your phone calls aren't restricted or monitored in any way?"

"No."

"So the tapes…"

"I don't know about any tapes."

"Let's say Samantha made tapes, okay? Why would she leave a nasty message, like she was in trouble? Was there a problem between her and her parents?"

"No idea." Michael laughed. "She was a funny girl. And Uncle Josiah's a sick bastard. Put the two together…"

"And?" Karen leaned against the table.

"This is just a theory, mind you, but Samantha didn't want anything to do with her family, not after her parents divorced. Maybe Josiah was trying to help ease the transition. I'm sure her parents wouldn't just let her go. Maybe they were bugging her and she said she was leaving the country so they'd leave her alone."

"And the message where she was screaming bloody murder and yelling at her mom?"

"I'd guess it was her way of telling them to leave her be."

"I don't buy it."

"There's a lot of ways to cut ties with family and Josiah knows them all. Look at my family. I don't have to talk to them anymore," he said smugly.

"She's dead. You said he killed her. Why would he keep playing the messages?"

"For fun."

"Messiahs have fun?" Jim asked skeptically.

"They do when they're Messiah Josiah."


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

Jim tapped his fingers against the side of the vending machine.

"What now?" Karen asked.

"We get to go through it all again and hope he gives us something new," Jim said.

Karen sighed. "Should we ask him about Artez?"

Jim grimaced. "Maybe not yet. I'd rather not let him know that we found him and that Artez fingered him as Pipsqueak."

"But if we let him know that we know he killed Samantha—"

Jim waved her off. "He'll twist it around somehow. I don't want to give him any ammunition on what we do or do not know."

Karen fished out some change and Jim listened to her drop the coins in the machine.

"Anything good in there?"

"I'm not even hungry. I guess I'm just eating out of habit."

Jim looked down at the machine as it dropped her selection. "I need something." He tapped the glass. "What's in here? Cookies? Candy? Chips?"

"A little of everything."

Jim pulled out his wallet and held out a dollar. "Here. I just want a candy bar or something. If nothing else, it'll keep me occupied."

Karen didn't take the money. "There's Braille on there. Haven't you ever used the machine?"

"No. I'd have to guess what's in there, wouldn't I?" He waved the money at her, not feeling like attempting to distinguish the letter and number combinations in front of Karen. He was tired and needed practice.

"Okay…"

He could practically feel her rolling her eyes.

"One tuna melt coming right up."

Jim heard something fall after she pushed a button and he reached down for the tray. The change dropped and he grabbed that, too. "Thanks."

"What're we doing?" Fisk asked.

"Thinking," Jim said as the lieutenant put some money in the machine.

"Let's let him guide us, see where he takes us."

* * *

Jim rubbed a hand over his forehead. Despite the entertainment value, he was getting sick of the kid. Three conversations in one day was a bit much.

"Go ahead and ask," Michael said calmly.

"Ask what?" Karen said.

"Not you."

"What do you want me to ask?" Jim asked.

"They always do; I can see it on your face." Michael's voice wavered.

"What?" Jim leaned back in his chair as calm as ever. He pushed the fatigue away and concentrated.

"Say it. Say, "What the hell's your problem? You let him kill your parents and now you're his closest friend? What is your problem?"" Michael's voice had risen in anger. He took a few deep breaths, then asked more quietly, "When are you going to say it?"

"I wasn't planning on it." Jim kept his voice even, despite his surprise. He hadn't expected the kid to start cracking up like that. It was almost unsettling to hear him getting upset.

"Why not?"

"I deal with people everyday who come from messed up homes, who commit crimes, who want to commit crimes but don't have the guts. I deal with all sorts of people who had both parents murdered and turned around to kill—"

"They weren't murdered," Michael defended.

Jim shrugged. "So this isn't about revenge on Uncle Josiah?"

"No!"

He nodded. "In the law, any death that's not natural or by your own hand, that's still murder."

"It wasn't murder!"

Jim held up a hand. "I won't call it either way."

"Call it as you see it. That's your job," Michael said coldly.

"I'm not looking into the deaths of your parents. Okay? That's not even an issue right now."

"I wanted them dead. That makes me an accessory, right?"

Jim leaned forward, his elbows on the table, looking over at Michael. "Tell me, why haven't you been able to get over their deaths?"

He heard Karen shift in her chair. Michael's side of the table was quiet.

Jim almost laughed as his words replayed in his head. He was beginning to sound like Galloway.

"I hadn't even thought about them in three years. I couldn't care less."

"Tell us about them."

"No."

"Okay. Tell us about junior high. You said you went to a private school? Catholic? Those Catholics are pretty tough, aren't they?"

"I learned from a nun," Michael said, brightening up a little. "She could take anything from anyone without them noticing."

"Did you ever get caught practicing her trade?"

"All the time."

Jim nodded. "How'd your mom feel about that?"

Michael shut down again.

"Tell us how they died," Karen said.

"Easily. Uncle Josiah slipped something in their coffee."

"At the same time? Wasn't anyone suspicious?"

"The coroner said Mom must have died first, and when Dad found her, his heart stopped."

"Any fingerprints?"

"There wasn't even an investigation. As far as anyone knew, I was still in Michigan. All I had to do was say I called to check up on them and when there wasn't an answer, I called the neighbor to check on them. All the while, I was back in New York with Uncle Josiah. I didn't even go to their funerals."

"They deserved to die?" Jim asked.

"Does anyone deserve anything good or bad? No. They just _needed_ to die. I needed them to die."

"Why?"

"Emancipation?"

"Were you happier?"

"Of course. And don't ask me if they were happier because there's no way I could possibly know that. I've never been visited by their ghosts. I haven't been spited by God for not honoring my mother and father."

"Was that your first death? The first people you helped kill?"

"Yeah."

"Were they the first people you'd known who died?" Karen asked.

"No. I told you, death runs in my family. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, dogs. My first dog died when I was four. We'd had him about three months. How do you explain that to a kid? You wanna know what they told me? They didn't say he died, or that he went to Heaven, they said he couldn't be with us anymore. How the hell do you understand that? He won't be here, he can't be here. Yeah, well, Grandma couldn't be there for Thanksgiving that year. What's that mean? The dog's busy? Or maybe Grandma died?" He shifted in his chair. "I never did see Grandma again, either. Hell of a way to find out she died, making the connection with your dog."

"After your parents died, then what?" Karen asked after a moment.

"I stayed with Uncle Josiah and he taught me things. He said I reminded him of himself when he was younger and he wanted to make sure I could take care of myself."

"He knew we were investigating Samantha's death?"

"Yeah. No. Yeah. He knew what you were after, but he had to be careful. He knows a lot of people don't like what he does for a living. But it's a necessary evil. Samantha understood that. I understood that. It's just the way life is, can you see that?"

Jim leaned forward. "What were you supposed to do at the warehouse? Just two of you? Against us?"

"I already told you."

"Josiah sent you."

"Yeah."

"The odds were against you, though."

"So? And now you're holding me for that."

"Initially, yeah, it was just assaulting a cop."

Michael gave a little snort. "I played right into your hands. I don't believe a word of it, that that's why you're holding me. I know you're looking into Uncle Josiah. That's who you want." The smugness was out of his voice, though, and he just sounded scared.

"Is he a good guy? Even if he is a "necessary evil"?"

Michael pounded his fist on the tabletop. "He'll kill me if you let me go! That's why I told you I killed Glenn. If you don't arrest him for Samantha's death, you can't let me go. Okay? He'll kill us all!"

Jim thought that sounded a lot like Artez's initial description of Pipsqueak.

Michael started crying.

"Did you kill Glenn Bartlett?"

"He was my best friend," Michael sobbed.

Jim followed Karen out of the interview room, letting a couple uniformed officers in to escort Michael back to the Tombs when he'd regained his composure.

"He's a big help, isn't he?" Marty asked when Jim and Karen came back into the squad.

"If Uncle Josiah's such a saint, what's he doing making people think he's going to kill everyone?" Tom asked. "What sort of a saint is that?"

Jim shrugged. "Ask Marty; he seems to think he's our resident saint this week." He walked off toward his desk, leaving silence behind him.

* * *

Jim grunted as he lifted one of the heavy desks to slide it back into place.

"You want a hand?" Marty asked, standing at the mouth of the hall. He watched Jim carefully check on the angle of the desk, walk back to the window and head down the aisle with his outstretched hand running down the length of the desk.

"You can save the applause for later," Jim said. "But if you really want to help move the desks, yeah, I'd be grateful." He stretched his arm and worked a kink out of his shoulder.

Marty dropped a file on his desk. "Is that one done?"

"Yeah. And believe it or not, he didn't touch the desks around mine." Jim went back to the window, squared himself off with a light touch, then headed down the aisle. "This one needs to go in about four inches."

"Four inches?" Marty said skeptically.

"Yeah, Marty. Four inches."

Marty was about to apologize when Tom walked up. "What are we doing?" he asked calmly with the voice of a mediator. Marty turned away.

"I'm just moving the desks back," Jim said with a shake of the head. He put a hand on the end of the desk. "This one needs to go about four inches left, if one of you could grab the other end."

"Sure," Tom said.

"I got it," Marty said, lifting his end. He matched Jim's movements, keeping the desk level, moving it so it stayed parallel to the desks on the other side. They set it down.

"Is it straight?" Jim asked.

"Yeah," Tom said. He walked around the other side and pushed the other desk up against it to close the gap.

Jim was concentrating on putting the chair in place, and the waste basket.

"No offense, Jim," Tom said, "but four inches? Wouldn't it be easier to just leave it?"

Jim's gaze focused on Tom, as much a mask as it usually was. Finally he shook his head. "The closer it is to the way it was before, the better."

"Okay."

"I'm not going to let this kid redecorate the squad."

"Fine by me."

"You guys don't have to help. It's not like it affects you."

"Nah, it's okay," Tom said. "I used to move furniture on weekends back in high school. It's bring back memories."

"Good ones?"

"Oh yeah, man. Back then, I couldn't imagine anything finer than a high school girl. But every year, I say the same thing. Nothing better than a girl this age. They ripen."

Karen snorted, walking up. "We're not fruit."

* * *

"Let's get out of here," Fisk said, shutting the door to his office. "We'll reconvene tomorrow—that is, unless anyone has any big plans they can't miss this weekend." Fisk stopped talking, but no one said anything. "No? Good." The lieutenant walked off.

Jim heard two other sets of footsteps head toward the locker room.

"I'm really looking forward to what this kid's gonna lay on us tomorrow," Marty said sarcastically.

"You should be, Marty," Jim told him. "Every little bit helps."

"No… even when he's shitting us like he has been for the past two days? Maybe you bought the crying act tonight—"

"Let's go down there right now and call him on it, how's that sound?"

"Sounds good to me. Another night in jail, I don't even want to know what he's going to come up with in all that free time. Some other wild goose chase and long-winded story?"

"You don't have to come in tomorrow. I'd hate for you to miss your Little Miss Pain-in-the-Ass dance recital—"

"Yeah? And what do you do most Saturday afternoons? Walk down the street with a tin cup?"

"I don't have to; Hank does parlor tricks."

"Good for him. But the trick I'd like to see is you pulling Uncle Josiah out of your hat—"

"We'll see him Monday."

"Right. And you'll never pin anything on him, 'cause if you ask me, this kid's as crooked as they come. It's all an act."

"You didn't meet Uncle Josiah—"

"Wish I had. I'd have—"

"I doubt it, Marty. You had your chance to come and you passed it, so don't go trying to tell me how you'd have gotten him in-house and made him crack."

Jim stopped when he heard footsteps approaching. He pulled out his chair and sat quickly. He heard Marty do the same.

Karen shuffled papers at her desk for a minute. She opened drawers and rifled around.

Jim tried to concentrate on a file on his computer, but mostly he was breathing in, out, trying to relax. He was just tired. That's the only reason they were sniping again. Marty and him, there was nothing really wrong and the less they said, the less they'd regret later.

A few minutes later he was feeling better. As soon as Karen left, he'd apologize. She didn't need to know that he and Marty were fighting.

"You're not going home yet, Jim?" Karen asked.

"Nah, not yet. Christie's in one of her moods."

"You make her sound like she's unstable."

Jim shook his head and leaned back in his desk chair. "Never marry someone who can't handle the fact that you're a cop."

Karen said goodnight and left.

"I don't blame her," Marty shot over.

Jim stared in his direction. He was about to tell him to mind his own business when Marty spoke again.

"You treat her like crap, obviously. Not only that, but you're on this crusade to prove you're a tough cop."

"I'm not—"

"How many cops go home beaten up every night? And how many get shot in a bank robbery playing hero? How many times have you decided to play hero, Jim? You're blind—you think that was easy for her to accept?"

"How long have you been my therapist?" Jim snapped.

"All you've been doing since you've been here is put yourself in dangerous situations, trying to prove you're still the same cop you were before. Do you have a death wish? You're going to keep at it until you either prove you're a better cop now or until you end up dead? And you just expect your wife to sit back and watch?"

"You know nothing about me, Marty." Jim stood up, pushing his chair back.

"Sure I do,_ Jimmy_."

Jim knit his eyebrows together as he looked up at Marty.

"Does everyone you used to know call you that?" Marty asked.

"The people I was close to did."

"You're not going to ask us to call you Jimmy?"

Jim sighed. "You can call me anything you want, Marty." He pulled on his suit jacket, ready to get out of there.

"How about "asshole"?"

"Marty!" Jim looked over at him, not blinking. "You can call me anything you want," he said slowly, dragging out the pauses between words. "I don't care." He heard Marty grunt. "Look, I'm sorry about giving you shit about the case. I know we don't see eye to eye on it. I'm tired and I shouldn't have said anything. I'm sorry, okay?"

"Whatever."

"What's eating you?"

"The thing that pisses me off most is you're almost a nice guy. Sometimes I find myself almost _liking_ you."

"And that pisses you off?"

"It's all an act. You just use people to your advantage. Your wife, you don't deserve her."

"I know that. And I'm making the most of the second chance I got with her."

"If you ever end up shot and killed, it won't surprise me."

Jim raised his eyebrows.

"It might surprise some people, but I'm not going to let you fake it with me, Dunbar. You have to _earn_ my respect."

Jim listened as Marty walked away.

* * *

"Jimmy?" Christie called. Her voice was far away, behind a closed door.

"Yeah?" he called back.

"Could you come here?"

Jim headed for the bedroom. The door was open, meaning she had to be in the bathroom. He knocked on the adjoining door.

"Come in," she called.

He stepped into the room, then blinked quickly. Steam radiated through the air. He shut the door and loosened his tie.

"How'd it go?" she asked.

He pulled off his jacket. "It's hot in here."

She splashed water in the bathtub. "I know. Make yourself comfortable."

"It was pretty good. We have a ways to go, though. It's not as simple as we'd hoped."

"You got home pretty early."

"I need sleep. We've been working since a little after four this morning. And we'll be there all day tomorrow."

"How's your body?"

"Not bad," he lied.

"Join me? I got some herbal bath stuff that's supposed to help with sore muscles."

"You did?"

"My way of apologizing. I know this is what you do. It's who you are. I was just scared."

"Christie…"

"Join me."

Jim slowly pulled off his shirt.

"And that doesn't hurt?" she asked.

"Looks can be deceiving."

"Come on." She took his hand and helped him into the tub in front of her. "I got a rub. It's supposed to help with sore muscles, too. You want a back rub?"

"My shoulder kinda hurts."

"I'll be gentle."

Jim heard his wife open a bottle. "Does it smell like flowers or something?"

Christie laughed. "Don't worry. I know by now that cops don't smell like flowers."

He felt her wave a hand under his nose and sniffed. He caught a whiff of something light, but not overly-fragrant and nodded that she could continue. The lotion felt cold in the steamy room. He closed his eyes and tried to relax. "Are you okay?" he finally asked.

"I think so. I shouldn't have said what I did."

"But if that's the way you feel—" He started to turn around to face her, but she pushed him back. He sat still, wondering if it helped her, only being able to see the back of his head.

"Tell me what happened yesterday," she said.

Jim filled her in, then caught her up on that morning, the censored version like he always fell back on with her.

"You like this kid," Christie said.

Jim frowned. "I don't dislike him."

"You're not usually so… intrigued by a perp."

"Usually they're so cold. They did what they did, and they're sorry they got caught, but Michael's life really has been… interesting. I wish I could help him."

"But if it turns out he killed someone?"

"There's nothing I can do. If we can pin anything on Uncle Josiah, there's a chance his influence could help Michael get an easier sentence. When you're under the influence of someone like that…" Jim shrugged. He pushed himself back in the tub and moved Christie in front of him so he could lean back. "I don't think we're ever going to figure out the whole truth."

"You're optimistic," Christie said, leaning back against him.

"You know me: always look on the bright side."

Christie giggled lightly.

"I think I'll skip dinner tonight," Jim mumbled, his eyes closed. He let his hand tangle in her wet hair, feeling himself drifting off, visions of Christie playing through his head. He tightened his hold on her momentarily when he caught a glimpse of her in her office. _"There's more to your life than just your job, you know,"_ her voice echoed in his memory. "I'll keep in mind what you told me this afternoon."

"Good."

"See? I listen sometimes," he joked quietly.

Christie pulled away and Jim opened his eyes. "Then you should have listened to your mother when she told you not to sleep in the bathtub." She took his hand and tugged. "Come on. Go to bed." She stood up. "I probably won't see you in the morning, will I?"

"I have no idea." He stood up slowly.

She giggled.

"What?"

"I guess I didn't think of everything; we'll have to share a towel."

Jim gently reached out and grabbed her chin, tipping her head up to make sure she was looking at him. He winked at her. "Sounds good to me."

"Are you trying to seduce me, detective?" she asked coyly.

"What the hell," he said with a shrug. "It's not every day I have a beautiful woman in my room…"

"Yes, it is."

Jim smiled at her. "Oh, that's right." He took her hand, then paused, listening to the water swirl down the drain. He heard Michael telling him wistfully about how Samantha was the prettiest girl he ever met.

"What?" Christie asked, sounding almost annoyed.

He shook his head apologetically. "I was just wondering how Michael could pretend he'd never known Samantha. He… was the father of her children. I thought it sounded like he loved her. But he was apparently there when she died…"

"Jimmy…"

"I know, I know. I'll stop thinking about them." She handed him the towel.

As he sank onto the bed a few minutes later, she said, "He didn't seem at all upset that she died?"

"He didn't." Jim stared at the ceiling. "Not even after he admitted they'd known each other for years." He took Christie's hand under the comforter. "That's something I can't understand." He turned toward her, knowing she'd already turned off the lights and was lying there in the dark, probably nothing more than a silhouette. "I don't know what I'd do if I lost you…"

Christie edged over and kissed him, laying her head on his pillow. He could feel her breath on his cheek, she was so close. "Here's hoping we never find out."

If he lost Christie… He couldn't imagine. And what she'd said about how hard it had been when she almost lost him, even though they'd barely been speaking at the time… She must have re-evaluated what was important. That's why she'd stuck with him through everything, no matter how difficult he'd been and how frustrated he'd become, how much he'd yelled at her.

She'd suddenly been there for him, every waking moment, and he'd just taken it for granted. All he'd ever bothered to re-evaluate had been his job. But she was right; there was more to his life. Galloway had tried to tell him the same thing, but it meant more, coming from his wife. Hadn't he learned yet, to never take anything for granted?


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

"Jimmy Dunbar, where are you going?" Christie demanded.

Jim stopped halfway to the coat rack and turned toward the kitchen. "You're up?"

"Yes, I'm up! I got up while you were in the shower."

"Oh." Jim blinked. "I thought you were still asleep…" He hurried to her side and gave her a peck on the cheek. "I didn't hear you get up." He turned to go.

"Jimmy!"

"What?"

"What about breakfast?"

He shrugged. "I figured I'd pick something up on the way there."

"I happen to have breakfast almost made. Sit."

Jim crossed to the counter. He sniffed the air, trying to figure out what she was making. "All I smell is coffee. Which I made." He pulled out the bar chair and hauled himself up. "I'm sorry I didn't notice."

"That's why I told you."

"What is it?"

"Waffles."

He heard her stirring something, a plastic spoon scraping one of the mixing bowls. He waited patiently and a minute later heard the batter sizzling and smelled the waffle cooking.

"Did you sleep okay?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"It's not even six yet…"

"We went to bed early… And I'm wound up. I want to finish this case."

"Don't you think you're being a little overzealous? I doubt anyone else is going to be there this early."

"I need to make some notes before I talk to this kid again."

Christie set a plate in front of him. He heard a fork drop into place next to the plate. "Syrup's on your right," Christie informed him while starting her own waffle.

"What do you have planned for today?" Jim asked when he was half done.

"Nothing. I'll probably just stay home." She flipped the waffle onto her plate. "And hope nothing happens to you."

"Christie!" Jim pushed the rest of his breakfast away.

She caught the plate quickly and pushed it back. "There's a glass of orange juice at 11 o'clock."

Jim shook his head, relieved she'd caught him before he knocked it over. "A well-balanced meal? Trying to make sure my head's on straight so I don't do something stupid?"

"I'm sorry." She sniffled.

"What now?"

"I didn't sleep much last night. That's all." She sat next to him and tapped the back of his hand with his fork until he took it. "I didn't mean it."

"Nothing's going to happen." He ran a hand over his face. "This isn't even the part of the case where things happen."

"I know."

He set his fork back down and reached over, searching for her hand. She reached back to him. "Come on, babe. Do you want to give me a ride today?"

She squeezed his hand.

* * *

Jim wouldn't let Christie walk him up. He was afraid if he let her in the building that she'd never be able to leave. That was a change, Christie being clingy, but he guessed the case had shaken her up more than she wanted to let on. And making her relive memories of the shooting at the bank wasn't helping.

The squad room felt empty. Jim didn't hear anyone moving around, so he just headed to his desk and switched on his computer. He draped his overcoat over the back of his chair and sank down. He had to admit, after that herbal bath, the back rub, and a little sleep, his body felt a lot better. He'd have to remember to thank Christie for that later. It would probably make her feel better, to know she'd been of some help.

Footsteps came from the locker room about ten minutes later. Jim looked up. "Karen?" he asked.

"You are here," she said. "I thought I heard someone come in."

"Yeah."

"Marty brought breakfast," she informed him.

"There's pastries in the locker room," Marty said.

"Christie made breakfast," he said.

"Why?"

Jim blinked up at the other detective. "I don't know, Marty." He held up his cell phone. "You wanna call and ask?"

Marty sat down with a negative grunt. "Just asking."

Karen pulled her chair out in the silence.

"Tom here yet?" Jim finally asked.

"Not yet," Karen said.

"I think he had a date last night," Marty said. "You know, with his girlfriend, not with that chick you introduced him to at the bar."

Jim turned the volume up on the file his computer was spewing back at him. It wasn't his fault if he was a bad influence.

* * *

"James Dunbar?"

The voice had an authoritative ring to it and Jim sat up straighter. He pulled his hands back from his keyboard. "That's me."

"Lou Banion, Internal Affairs."

Jim snatched the earpiece out of his ear and pushed his chair back a little. "What can I do for you?"

"Let's talk in the lieutenant's office."

Jim nearly gaped at him, but stood up anyway. "All right," he said as pleasantly as possible. He took his normal route behind Karen's desk, glad he'd taken the time to move all the furniture back into place. He could feel the silence as the other detectives stopped working and stared, probably at Banion. He could hear Banion moving toward the office from the other direction and stopped before he reached Fisk's door. The footsteps also stopped. "After you." He gestured, then waited for the man to comply.

Banion walked in without needing to open the door. Once inside, Jim kicked out the doorstop and closed the door behind them. He stood at attention, waiting.

"It's been brought to our attention—a complaint by another officer—that Detective Dunbar has files which no one else has access to," Banion said after greeting the lieutenant.

Jim couldn't keep the incredulous look off his face as he stared in Banion's direction.

"What are you talking about?" Fisk asked.

"The complaint was filed by Brian Mulhaney?" Jim asked.

"Yes."

"Are you aware the real Brian Mulhaney has been dead over a year?"

There was silence. Jim imagined Banion exchanging a look with Fisk in order to confirm the information.

"This case we're working on, we had someone pretending he was a cop, he even had Mulhaney's badge—"

"That's a serious accusation," Banion interrupted. "The name Mulhaney's very respected around here."

"I know that, sir. Boss—" Jim turned to Fisk. "I lied, the night that guy was here. He asked for my files on the case, and seeing as no one else was around…" He turned back to Banion. "I had my suspicions he wasn't who he said he was. So I told him he'd have to wait until morning, that they were all in Braille. Then I looked him up in the system and, I was right—he wasn't Brian Mulhaney."

"Your files aren't in Braille?"

Jim shook his head. "I use the same files everyone else does."

"How?"

"I scan them into my computer and they're read back to me."

"I'll need to look at that."

Jim just stared.

"Is that really necessary?" Fisk asked. "The kid who filed the complaint, we have proof he wasn't a cop."

"I realize that, but this is a serious accusation—"

"Coming from someone impersonating an officer," Fisk corrected. "Dunbar is a good detective—"

"This isn't about his ability to do his job. I have a job to do, too, and if he's not hiding anything—"

"I'm not," Jim said. He put a hand on the doorknob. "My computer's at my desk."

"I'd rather do it in here. Away from prying eyes. If everything checks out, do the other detectives in this squad even need to know there was a question of your integrity?"

Jim sighed. "No, sir." He opened the door.

"What's going on?" Karen whispered when he got to his desk.

"Nothing." Jim turned off the computer and unplugged the scanner and the network cord. He set the earpiece aside and unplugged the power cord from the scanner, then piled the scanner on top of the laptop, wound up all the necessary cords, and carefully hefted them.

"You need help?" Karen asked.

"I got it." He carefully walked back to the office. The door opened for him and he stepped in. "Where should I put these?"

"I cleared a spot on my desk," Fisk said.

Jim walked around the desk carefully. He'd never been on that side of the room before. Fisk lifted the scanner and the cords and set them down. Jim set the laptop next to the scanner and plugged it back in. "Where can I plug in this?" he asked, indicating the power cord and the network line.

"I got 'em," Fisk said and bent under the desk.

Jim powered up the laptop.

"Scan this," Banion said.

Jim heard him set a paper on top of the scanner. "Which side?"

"You tell me."

Jim shrugged. Guessing Banion had set it print side up, as most sighted people would, he flipped it and waited for the scanner to warm up. He hit a few keys to open the right program, then turned the volume up. The software started to regurgitate a few words, then gobbledygook. Jim stopped it. "It doesn't read handwritten things." He deleted the file.

"Then how do you get that information?"

"The few handwritten items, the other detectives are kind enough to share information. We work together."

"And they can use your computer?"

"Any sighted or unsighted person can use my computer. This just happens to be the only computer I can use."

"Why?"

"Because it's the only one that has the software to read things out loud." Jim squared his shoulders and opened the file on the current case. He scrolled through as the computer read through subfiles until he got to the part about Mulhaney and let it start playing in its stilted voice. He stood back. "You're welcome to any file in there. They're all on the network and can be accessed from any computer."

"…method of suicide is presumed poison. The time of death…" the computer read.

Banion moved over next to him and Fisk moved back a little. "I need to check it out. How do I get to the files?"

Jim gave him a quick tour of the computer, listing keystrokes as he used them to navigate.

Banion finally left, the computer reading through applications on the screen.

"That's… kind of annoying," Fisk said.

Jim turned the volume back down and shut it off. "But it's helpful." He followed the power cord under the desk until he found the surge protector underneath.

"What else did you tell that kid?" Fisk asked as Jim packed up.

"Nothing. I told him to come back in the morning."

"Are you sure? I don't want Internal Affairs up here everyday looking into our business. I don't like it anymore than you do."

Jim wound up the cords and stacked the scanner on top of the laptop. "The kid was good. Too bad he wasn't on our side."

* * *

"Tell us about Uncle Josiah," Karen said.

Jim was settled patiently into a chair Karen had pointed him to in an interview room in the Tombs. He folded his hands on top of the table.

"Are you sure you want to know?" Michael asked.

"What are you gonna tell us that's so shocking? We're cops, not nuns."

Jim snickered. "Speak for yourself."

"You two done?" Michael asked impatiently.

"You have somewhere to be?" Jim asked, still smiling. "She's right. We're not nuns. And we have _all day_. Go ahead."

"He uses his power just to have sex with women—that way it's not rape. All the brainwashing—"

Jim rolled his eyes at the sensationalist aspect Michael had affected.

"It's just for sex?" Karen asked skeptically. "You expect us to believe that's his only motivation."

"People kill for less."

"So if it's all about sex, why does he kill people? And why does he have male followers and friends like you? And why the drug business? You were doing better yesterday."

Michael sighed. "It's a good story I have planned out. Are you sure you don't want to hear it?"

"Don't waste our time," Karen said.

"Once upon a time there was this kid named Josiah. He looked like a nice guy, so he had trouble doing what he wanted to—which was crime. No one ever believed he was capable. So the big crimes, where he'd need help, a whole organization, he was always just the kid. He never got to actively participate. He thought of starting his own gang, but who's going to listen to a kid?

"Then he found he had this magnetism. He started studying hypnosis and created the next best thing—a cult. All those people who wouldn't let him play, he either brainwashed them into becoming his little servants, or he turned them over to the cops. He would play snitch because no one believed he'd be involved.

"He stole stuff. He got any girl he wanted. He could break in anywhere because he could disable any security system.

"Still no one believed he could do it. So he got all these poor people to follow him. He would wipe out bank accounts and create new people to worship him. He'd withhold medication until they supplicated.

"And he's been at it ever since, making miserable people and making those miserable people think he's a messiah."

"You have any proof?" Jim asked.

Michael tapped the top of the table a couple times. "You have all the proof you need in that filing cabinet from the warehouse. Contact every one of those people and they'll testify. They were the ones who got out of his grasp. They know the truth."

"You can have a thousand witnesses saying someone's bad, but unless we have a crime to charge him with, that won't do any good."

"You have the death of Samantha, don't you?" Michael asked like a know-it-all. "And I do believe you had someone commit murder just down the street by pushing someone else off a building. That was his doing."

"We're looking for proof that he killed Samantha, but with the guy on the roof, with the perpetrator dead, we can't even charge Josiah as an accomplice."

"Shit," Michael said quietly.

"He's good at covering his tracks."

"I'll think of something…"

"The poison was untraceable."

"What about the bullets?"

"They were matched to the gun your friend had in the warehouse."

"See?"

Jim leaned forward. "But the gun's registered to you. Josiah never even touched it. You admitted yourself that you're the one who shot her."

"Fck."

"You can tell all the fairy tales you want, but you're the one going down for the murders." Jim pushed his chair back and stood.

"That's it?"

"If you think of anything useful, let us know." He opened the door.

Karen followed him out. "Big help," she said.

"Yup." He took her arm and let her lead him down the hall.

"I'm glad we were in the Tombs and not upstairs. Russo never would have let me live that one down, saying we're not nuns…"

"Who says I'm going to?"

"Jim! It's been a long week! And this kid… It's flustering talking to him. You can't see it in his eyes, but sometimes… I forget what I'm about to say to him."

Jim was quiet a second. "He is Josiah's little protégé, isn't he?"

She shrugged.

"He learned a lot from the guy."

"I don't doubt it," Karen said.

"Let's see if we can pin anything on Josiah before Monday," Jim said.

* * *

Karen caught Jim in the locker room before lunch. "Jim!" Karen reprimanded him. "Lay off Marty."

Jim and Marty had just exchanged a few terse words in the squad room, but Jim hadn't realized Karen was within earshot. "Why should I? He's the one—"

"I don't care who started it, but you're my partner. I want you to be the grown-up here, okay?"

He wanted to snap at her, that she should lecture him about being a grown-up. As much as he'd tried to ignore it and just do his job, he had to know. He hadn't asked before because he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer. He put both hands up against the end of a row of lockers and leaned down, his head bowed. He listened as she moved away. He struggled to keep his voice even. "Why'd you have to tell Marty about Anne?"

There was silence.

"Karen?"

"I didn't," she said from near her locker.

Jim moved closer to her, gesturing for her to continue, but again there was silence. Maybe she wasn't looking at him. He moved right next to her and lowered his voice. "Then how'd he find out?"

"Anne told him."

Jim wrinkled his nose. "Why would Anne tell Marty?"

"He ran into us one night." Karen paused. "Is that his problem?"

"Yeah. Has she been telling everyone?" He could feel a rage and a hurt he hadn't felt in a long time, like his stomach was being pinched shut.

"No. No, really, she hasn't." Her tone was meant to be soothing, but he sure didn't feel at all calmer.

"Just Marty?" Jim asked skeptically. If it was true, Anne sure knew how to pick them. She'd always known what was best for him, so she could easily figure out how to make him miserable.

"Far as I know."

"Just Marty what?" Marty asked from the door to the locker room.

Jim turned, ready to explain, but Karen jumped in first. "Let's go out to lunch," she said. "All three of us. We need to talk."

Marty was silent. Jim kept his mouth shut, just listened to Karen walk away. He followed her slowly, waiting for Marty to join them so he could follow them both. He grabbed his coat and Hank's harness. Marty and Karen were already waiting.

"Where you going?" Tom asked from his desk.

"Lunch," Marty said, sounding confused.

"Can I come?"

"Not this time," Karen said, then started to walk away.

"Sorry," Marty said, and his footsteps followed her.

"Hey! What's this all about?"

Jim headed for the door.

"Jim?" Tom's plaintive voice asked, the little kid who was left behind.

Jim turned and shrugged. "Sorry, Tom. Maybe next time."

"I don't like surprises!" Tom yelled after him.

* * *

"Marty, you need to hear this, and Jim, you're not supposed to know this, but… It just wouldn't be right for me and Marty both to know and you not."

Jim clasped his hands on top of the table in front of the club sandwich he'd ordered. As far as he knew, none of them had touched their food yet and wouldn't until Karen got off her chest whatever it was she thought they needed to know.

"You're as bad as Tom, dragging things out," Marty said.

"I just don't want this to get back to Anne. She's my friend and…"

"And you're betraying her confidence?"

"Geez, Marty, when you put it that way," Karen said.

"Karen," Jim said. "What is it? You two can drive me crazy later."

"Anne knew you were married."

Jim just stared at her.

"What?" Marty exclaimed. Jim could hear a note of outrage in his voice. Probably felt he'd been strung along just like Jim had.

"She doesn't remember I know, she's always going on and on about how you lied and all… Drives me nuts."

"She _knew_ I was married?" Jim asked finally.

"You two met at some party and I guess you were pretty drunk and you were flirting with her. Bobby Schwartz's 59th, I think. I got there late and Anne came running up, told me all about you flirting with her even though your wife was there… She was pretty drunk, too. She told me she wanted to see how long before you told her you were married."

"It was a game? This was all a game to her?"

"Not all. I think she really liked you…"

"She was playing me? Was she _trying_ to ruin my marriage?" Jim turned away. Hank had sat up at the outraged tone in Jim's voice, but Jim motioned for him to lie back down. "So she just kept pretending we had all these things in common?" Jim asked quietly.

"I dunno. She was pretty drunk that night…"

"But she remembered I was married."

"I think so."

Jim stood up and took Hank's harness.

"Where're you going?" Karen asked.

"I need to think."

* * *

Part of Marty's problem really was that Jim was a nice guy. Maybe not a good guy, but he was a good detective and Marty sometimes found it hard to hate him. Which was a problem because, of all the people Marty had met, Jim was up there on the list of people who needed to be hated. He didn't need any more friends. He didn't need anyone else to just excuse his actions. He'd cheated on his wife. He was a jerk sometimes.

Marty wasn't about to cut him some slack just based on what Karen had told them. Really, he shouldn't have known about the affair in the first place.

What kept nagging at him was the bit where Jim's own wife didn't think he should be a cop. That wasn't right. Jim was a detective, and a damn good one.

There was a knock on the open door of the locker room. Marty looked up to see Jim standing there, listening hard to the silence of the room. His eyes were focused somewhere out the window and one hand was on the doorjamb.

"Marty?" Jim finally asked.

"Yeah."

Jim looked over, his lips pressed together. "Karen told me you were in here." He tried to smile. "I was beginning to think she was wrong."

"What do you want, Jim?" Marty asked, not unkindly, just curious. He stood up, but didn't move away from the window.

"I'm sorry you know any of this." Jim shrugged. "I… know it wasn't right, okay?"

"Whatever. I shouldn't know any of this."

"So we'll just work together."

"Yeah. And it has nothing to do with what Karen told me. I've been trying to forget ever since I met Anne."

"I wish I could forget I ever met Anne," Jim said quietly, looking down at the floor.

"Yeah. Right."

Jim's eyes raised. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You can stop trying to make me think you've reformed. It doesn't matter."

"It does matter." Jim ran his hand through his hair, messing it up. Marty saw him wince and rub a spot at the back of his head. "Marty, haven't you ever regretted doing something that messed up your life?"

"Is that the only reason you regret it?" Marty crossed his arms and watched Jim.

"It was wrong," Jim said. "I was wrong."

Marty laughed.

Jim cocked his head to the side, but Marty couldn't tell what he was thinking behind those sunglasses.

"The great Jim Dunbar admits he's wrong? What's the catch?"

"Marty…"

Jim turned away, leaning against the door frame. He took a few deep breaths.

"Look," Marty finally said, "we worked together before, we can work together again." Jim didn't answer, like he knew that wasn't quite the end of it. "Keep your hands to yourself and watch Karen's back, that's all I ask."

Jim nodded.

"We brought back your sandwich, just in case you got hungry." Marty crossed to the fridge and turned back to see Jim's gaze following his movements. He opened the door. "Uh… Top shelf on the right. It's in a Styrofoam box."

* * *

Jim turned toward Karen and listened to her typing at her desk. He had things on his mind. Christie, the case, Anne, Marty, DeLana, five dead people, poison, cult members, suicides, Owls. What would make a person give up their individuality? How bad must their lives be for them to relinquish free thought? It wasn't a constitutional amendment, no one was forced to think for themselves, but—

Jim guessed he thought enough for several people on his own. Without the ability to think, he'd be lost, floundering, truly helpless.

"Jim," Karen snapped, "stop staring at me."

"Karen, I want you to help me with something." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Are we alone?"

"Yeah."

"Do you think you could set up a meeting with me and Anne?"

"Jim—"

"Hear me out. Things didn't end so great between us, and no amount of apologizing is going to help, I know that, but—"

"You can't go tell her—"

"I won't even mention that she knew I was married. It sort of evens us up in a way, right? I didn't admit it, but she already knew?"

"Then what—"

"I need to apologize, I guess. And I'd rather she didn't go telling everyone what I did."

"You're going to buy her silence?" Karen asked incredulously, then laughed.

"No! I know it can't be a secret, but I'd rather she not go blabbing to everyone. Look what happened with Marty—"

"So that's what this is about. You don't want to apologize. You just want her to shut up."

"I just want to talk to her."

"You never just talk."

"Karen, what happened between Anne and me, that should really stay between Anne and me, don't you think? Could you just ask if she'll talk to me?"

Karen sighed. "If it'll make her stop obsessing about you every time I see her…" She picked up the phone.

"Thanks," Jim said.

* * *

Jim laid his elbows on his desk and rested his chin on his clasped hands. Around him he could hear the other detectives searching files on their computers. Karen made a couple phone calls. Tom tapped a pen on his desk. Jim tuned them all out. There didn't seem to be much else they could learn and going through the files again wasn't going to do any good. Now they just needed to regurgitate the information, sift out the truth, then go from there.

Michael was the big variable. The most unreliable type of witness, one who changed stories and facts every time they talked to him.

The thing Karen had told him after their interview that morning, about how she'd forget what she was going to say when she looked over at Michael, that kept running through his mind.

"Let's say Marty's right for once," Jim said. The room fell silent. "Let's just say Uncle Josiah's not the bad guy here," Jim said.

"Excuse me?" Karen said. "I thought you thought he was an incarnation of Satan or something."

"I never said he's not a bad guy, I just said, what if he didn't kill Samantha and her cousin?"

"Okay…"

"Someone else did."

"Yeah, if he didn't, obviously someone else did."

"Someone who's a protégé of the creepy uncle."

"Okay…"

"Then they would try to do things just like him."

"To frame him?"

"Maybe, yeah."

"But they wouldn't be as good at it."

"Right."

"So? They seem pretty good at it to me."

Jim shook his head. "That's not the point. The point is, maybe they don't have as many ways to deal with people."

"So they repeat?"

Jim nodded.

"That's why Samantha and Glenn were both shot and poisoned?"

"So say Glenn was hypnotized not to talk unless he was staring at fire."

"Then maybe Samantha was, too," Karen said. "But that doesn't do us any good. They're both dead."

"Yeah, but it sounds like Glenn was good friends with Michael. And we have two living guys in custody right now. What if Samantha, being Josiah's little friend, was hypnotized first?"

"And Michael copied it with everyone he knew?" Karen asked.

"I'm thinking, maybe. He's not the most original thinker, as you pointed out."

"You think it'll work?"

"It's worth a try."

"You really think Michael might be trying Uncle Josiah's tricks on other people?"

"I don't know what his reasoning would be, maybe just to see if he could, but yeah, I think he'd enjoy trying to hypnotize people and see if he could get them to do what he wanted."

"Yeah… He would enjoy it. But why'd he kill people?"

"Maybe he did that for Josiah, but he's branching out on his own."

"I'll go get a candle," Karen said.

* * *

"What's that?" the second guy asked. The man who called himself Santa Claus and who Michael had called Antoine.

"It's a candle," Marty said.

"What's your name?" Tom asked.

"Fred Flintstone."

Jim heard a match being lit.

"What's your name?" Marty asked.

"Antoine Bellini."

"Good… You know someone named Uncle Josiah?"

"Yeah. What about him?"

"He a good friend?"

"He's a sick bastard."

"How?"

"You know what he does? He makes people think he's so great, like he's a philanthropist, but all he's doing is slowly killing them."

"How?"

"He takes their lives. He reassigns them. He keeps them alive until he has what he wants from them."

"He wanted you to be at the warehouse?"

"What?"

"The warehouse, remember? Where you shot at me and attacked another cop," Tom said.

"No. I haven't talked to that bastard in months. I got away, you know? I'm one of the lucky ones."

"Then what were you doing at the warehouse?"

"My friend Michael asked me to go with him. He said he had a little business to take care of."

"Such as?"

"I didn't ask."

"How do you know Michael?" Marty asked.

"He was one of Uncle Josiah's "friends," too. He's the one who helped me get away." Antoine's tone was affectionate.

"What do you two do together?"

"Just hang out."

"Did he asked you to shoot me?" Tom asked.

Antoine laughed, like it was truly funny. "The fight was two against one. I didn't know you were cops. I was just trying to help him; he's my friend. It was a warning shot, man. I'm not _that_ bad of a shot."

"And you have no idea what you were doing at the warehouse?" Marty asked.

"No…"

"Do you know what that place used to be?"

"Uncle Josiah ran shop out of there for a while. He moves around a lot, empty buildings before they get sold or torn down."

"Shop?"

"He invents stuff."

"What kind of stuff?"

"He called it _medicine_."

"Why's he make it?" Tom asked.

"He says it's to help people, but let's just say, I'm not so sure about that."

"What do you think it's for?" Marty asked.

Antoine shrugged. "I'd guess it's for making people subject to him. But I didn't know him that long."

"No?"

"I was lucky."

"Tell us about Michael."

Antoine laughed. "He's a good kid. A fucking _orphan_. He takes care of his friends to make sure nothing happens to them."

"He used to work for Uncle Josiah?"

"No. He was just another prisoner."

"Any special skills?" Tom asked.

"He says he could disarm a cat burglar without them even noticing. He could be a pickpocket, but he's too damn nice. He suffers a lot from _guilt_."

"Did you know a girl named Samantha?" Marty asked.

"Michael's girlfriend?" Antoine asked with a smile. "She was hot."

"What happened to her?" Tom asked.

"I think she died. She was diabetic, but didn't take good care of herself. She was a chocolate addict."

"Do you know anything about a poison Uncle Josiah invented? Perhaps one that looked like chocolate?" Marty asked.

"No, but it wouldn't surprise me. He was twisted. Sick."

"Did you know a kid named Glenn Bartlett?"

"Yeah! Glenn. He was cool. He used to come over drinking with us."

"What happened to him?"

"He stopped showing up. I dunno."

"What would you say if I told you Michael killed both Samantha and Glenn?" Tom asked.

"What?" Antoine scoffed. "You're joking. He wouldn't. He loved Sammy."

* * *

"This kid I believe," Marty said.

Tom laughed. "Were you even there?"

"I'm serious. He may not have a clue, but he's not lying."

"He might as well have been stoned for all he knows. And as a witness? I don't think our candle theory would hold up in a court of law. "Your Honor, hold up while I get the candelabra. My witness is junk without it. Anyone got a match?""

"Tom," Marty said in a low voice, "fight me all you want, but it sounds to me like Michael's a messiah wannabe."

* * *

Karen set a candle in the middle of the table, already lit. It smelled like blueberry pie, and Jim could still detect a faint whiff of the match that had wafted in from the squad room.

"What's that?" Michael asked. He started laughing hard, almost hysterically.

"Just checking," Jim said.

"You're funny, really. This is the most fun I've ever had in jail."

"You wanna talk about the candle?"

"It's blue. Smells nice, too, but you'd know that."

"No. Why'd you do it?"

Michael kept laughing. "I've spent my whole life trying to do something I'll regret. That's all I want."

"Have you succeeded?" Karen asked, blowing out the candle.

"Not yet. But I'm certainly trying. You looked lovely by candlelight, by the way. Anyone have another match?"

* * *

"How was your day?" Christie asked. She walked up from the kitchen.

"Can you ask me tomorrow? When I'm not being investigated by Internal Affairs?" Jim was half-serious, half-joking, but mostly numb. The day just seemed long, not having learned much of use. They'd be back at it tomorrow. He bent down to take off Hank's harness.

"What?" she asked incredulously, then she was there beside him, running her fingers through his hair.

"I'll be glad when this case is over. It's really starting to get to me." Jim sat on the floor next to the dog, playing his hands over the harness with his wife standing behind him trying to offer comfort. He was suddenly exhausted. If Reg Schmidt had managed to get any other dirt on him, he could very well not have a job right now, even if the kid wasn't a cop. Jim couldn't help but think, if it had been about Marty or Tom, the accusation would have been pushed aside. But for him, they had to follow up. He'd never be allowed to slide. Even now, if they found out he'd lost his gun for that one day, even so long after the fact, he'd still take a rip, or worse.

"Are you okay?" Christie asked, concerned.

"Yeah. I'm just tired."

"What were they investigating?"

"Nothing." He hauled himself back to his feet and gave her a short kiss.

"Jim—"

"It's over." He took off his coat.

"You want some wine?"

"I want a beer." He headed for the kitchen.

"I'll get it," she offered.

Jim changed his course and plucked his Braille workbook from the shelf. "It was all because of this," he said quietly when he heard her walk up behind him.

"Because you can't read Braille?"

Jim smiled. He sat on the floor by the coffee table. He took the beer from her and spread out. "Because, since I'm blind, I'm obviously fluent in Braille." He sighed. "It's hard to explain to them that I'm not; it doesn't work that way." He turned back to explain. "They thought I would have separate files no one else could read."

"You want me to tell them I've been harping on you for a year about learning to read it?"

Jim leaned back against her legs as she sat on the couch and let his head lean back, eyes closed.

"You don't have to practice if you're too tired," she said. She brushed his hair back from his forehead.

"The weird thing is, what happened today, it made me want to practice."

"So you can keep secret files in Braille?"

"So at least I'd have the option. It wasn't even possible for me to do what they were accusing me of."

"If you're taking a rap for the crime, you should at least be capable, huh?"

"It's a "rip," darling," Jim said with a laugh.

"Whatever it is."

"Or _the_ rap…"

"Okay."

"You're cute," he said, tossing her a smile. Jim flipped through the workbook.

"At least I'm good for something," she said, almost sounding disgruntled, or maybe just frustrated.

"Exactly." He leaned back toward her again. "One more kiss, then work."


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

Half-awake, Jim felt a movement. Something small. He had a notion he shouldn't have been able to feel it, like a cotton ball dropping onto the other side of the bed. He opened his eyes, listening.

He'd just been dreaming… What was it? Fireflies had been drifting around the ceiling of the bedroom and he'd been able to see them and he'd told Christie. She'd laughed and told him they were candles. He couldn't see her, which surprised him, because by then he was sure it was a dream. In his dreams he could always see; they were easy to differentiate from reality. In the dream she'd told him to relax and just enjoy the candles, not to worry about it. But he was worried because he couldn't see her; he was afraid he was losing her.

Now the fireflies were gone and he was awake, staring at the ceiling. Christie could have filled the room with candles and it wouldn't have made any difference.

He couldn't hear her breathing. He wasn't sure if she was beside him, but he didn't want to move until he'd figured out what had awakened him.

"Are you awake?" Christie whispered a minute later.

"My eyes are open, aren't they?" he said, and sat up. He didn't know where she'd been, but now she was over by the window.

"Are you okay?"

Jim smiled instead of getting mad. "You can stop asking me that question all the time," he said. "How long have you been up?"

"About twenty minutes."

Jim reached for his alarm clock and pushed the button to make it talk. 8:15. Jim looked over at Christie, startled. He laughed. "I feel like a kid, sleeping this late."

"Come here," she said.

Jim crawled out of bed, stretching his still-sore muscles. They were getting better, but first thing in the morning he could really feel the after affects of the fight. He joined her at the window and wrapped his arms around her. She was wearing a heavy but soft robe and he pulled the belt to cinch it tighter around her waist. Christie intertwined her fingers with his and leaned back against him.

"I've been watching this kid down on the sidewalk," she said quietly.

Jim looked toward the glass, waiting for her to paint him the picture.

"He's carving a pumpkin."

"How old is he?"

"Eight? Maybe nine. Dark hair. He's squatted down with a big spoon. It looks like someone already cut the top off for him and he's been scooping out all the insides for a while… He has a pile of seeds on some newspaper. It looks like a little pyramid."

Jim pictured it as closely as he could. He was sure the pyramid didn't have corners really, but he couldn't get that image out of his head, almost cartoonishly orange, the seeds looking like little blocks. The image in his head was right there, looking at the kid only feet away, but he tried to modify it so he was looking down from their apartment window like Christie was. In the background he caught a flash of Egypt, sand blowing down the street, then it was back to New York and the scene stabilized without new input.

"He's giving up on the spoon and he's just using his hands and flicking the seeds away." She leaned forward a little, probably to get a better view, then back. "He tossed the spoon over his shoulder and it landed in the doorway."

Jim smiled. "That's something we haven't done in a while. Maybe we should carve a pumpkin this year."

"We haven't done that since the first year we were married." Christie laughed. "You said you'd never do it again."

"I think I have more patience now." He rubbed a hand up and down her arm, then kissed her cheek from behind. "What else have you been watching?"

"I was watching you for a while."

Jim let his hand stray to his face. "How bad is it?" He probed the bruise, but he could tell it was healing because it barely hurt.

"It's the ugliest color I've ever seen. Which means it's probably going to be the next dress color we feature in the magazine." Christie glanced up at him, then back out the window. He could feel her looking around, her hair not yet combed and brushing against his face. "That's an evil-looking knife… He's starting with the eyes."

Jim chuckled and leaned down to kiss her neck, murmuring, "That's not something you want to tell a blind man." He straightened back up. "Triangles?"

"Hard to tell yet. He can't get it through the shell."

"He's doing this all by himself? Should we call the ambulance now?" Jim broke away and headed for the bathroom.

"Jimmy, have faith."

"I do. You don't see me running down there right now and wrestling that knife out of his hands, do you?" He grabbed a towel and turned on the water to let the shower warm up. "If you go out today, buy a pumpkin," he called. "And keep an eye on that kid, okay?"

"Jimmy!" she called.

"Yeah?" he asked as he stepped into the shower.

"Oh, never mind." She sounded dejected or frustrated.

Jim hurried through his shower. He wanted to dawdle and let the hot water work the kinks out of his muscles, but there was something about the tone in Christie's voice that made him rush.

Christie wasn't in the bedroom anymore when he finished. He dressed more casually than normal, khaki pants and a sweater. It was Sunday and they'd all agreed the work day would probably be short. Until they got to talk to Uncle Josiah on Monday, there wasn't a lot that could be done. Go back over all the facts, maybe talk to Michael and Antoine if they needed, but pretty casual overall.

He headed out of the apartment, determined to find Christie and make sure she was okay, but something hit his shoulder in the doorway, and something else dragged across his face. He flinched and moved back, hands already outstretched to see what it was. His fingers tangled in a string, then trailed down and found a note card floating off the bottom. Jim pulled and the string popped down easily. He ran his hand up and found a piece of tape.

"Christie?" he called, confused.

She didn't answer and he turned back to the card. Braille letters. He sat on the bed to read it, more confused than ever.

"I love you," it read at the top, every letter spelled out, not using contractions like a more advanced Braille student would. The reading was slow, still, as his fingers still had trouble distinguishing the shapes. "I want to help." Jim remembered how someone had once told her it would help him learn Braille if she left him notes to decipher. And she was always wanting to help; maybe this would be one time she could. "Good luck on the case and dinner for two when it's over."

Jim stood back up. "Christie?" He finally laughed.

It was just a note, nothing to worry about, and it didn't say she was angry and leaving… So much had run through his head in the second after he found something floating where nothing should have been, after the odd tone in her voice. He tried not to think about how much it threw him off when things were slightly out of place.

"I'm right here," she said when he got into the kitchen. "I wanted to make sure you read the note first."

He nodded. "I found it. Probably not the best place for a note, though."

"I put it on my pillow first, but you didn't find it," she said quietly.

Jim remembered the soft sound or the feeling that had woken him up. "Oh."

"I wasn't sure where to put it where you couldn't miss it…"

Jim laughed. "That works for emergencies… But it…"

"What?"

"It kinda scared me," he admitted with a laugh.

"Then we'll have to find somewhere else and you'll have to check for notes when you come home," she said matter-of-factly.

He nodded, but he was kind of proud of her for ignoring his little admittance. A few months ago she probably would have made a big deal out of it and worried about doing anything that would mess up his carefully ordered world. "I can do that." He pulled himself up on one of the bar stools, running his fingers over the card again. She set something in front of him that sounded like a coffee cup. "I love you, too," he said without looking up.

"Can I help this time?" she asked, sounding nervous.

"Sure. I'd like that." He reached for the coffee with his left hand, his right scanning the first line of her note. He kept his eyes down as a small wave of guilt washed over him. He knew he'd never be able to share everything that happened today with her. Because he wasn't going straight to work—the detectives had all decided not to show up until noon, and he had another order of business to take care of first.

* * *

He hadn't seen Anne since he'd gone blind. Another part of Jim Before, but like Galloway said, it didn't matter what she thought of him. He'd been bad enough before; it wasn't likely he could fall much further in her sights. And knowing Anne like he had, he was sure she wouldn't feel sorry for him. Anne had been his girl without pity. She'd been too logical to feel sorry for anyone. People had fallen into three categories with her: people she liked, people whose lives sucked because it was their own fault, and people who needed to get over the fact that their lives sucked and get on with life. She'd always been honest almost to a fault.

Which is why he couldn't reconcile her knowing he was married. But he'd promised Karen he wouldn't bring that up. He'd just have to chalk it up to women having so many layers he never knew what they were going to do next.

He was sitting in a coffee shop, his coffee long cold. He'd gotten there early, picked the spot because it was usually quiet. He wanted to be able to talk privately, hoped to hear her come in. He preferred getting there first to getting there second and taking the chance that Anne would take one look at him at the door and decide not to say anything, keep her presence from him.

He'd been thinking about what to say, but he didn't have a speech prepared because he didn't know what Anne was going to bring up.

"Jim."

He looked up. "Anne." He started to stand.

"No need." She pulled out a chair to his right. "Karen said you wanted to see me."

He settled back.

A second chair slid out to his left and Jim shifted his gaze, brows furrowed. Someone cleared their throat awkwardly. Female, familiar.

"Uh… Anne wanted me here as a sort of mediator," Karen said. She hadn't sat down yet.

"Karen?" It was out of his mouth, the surprise and shock of her being there, before he could stop it. It made him feel like his blindness was showing, not having known it was her as soon as she walked in the door. Not having paid enough attention to differentiate that there were two sets of footsteps.

"Is that okay?" Anne asked primly.

Jim turned to stare in her direction. He hadn't planned for Karen to be privy to this. He had to work with her everyday, depend on her. He didn't want her so close to his personal life and his past mistakes. "Do we really need a mediator?" he finally asked.

Karen's chair scraped back into place. "I trust you both. I'll be right over there if you need me."

"Karen—" Anne started.

Karen's footsteps left them without turning back.

"Anne," Jim said, feeling hurt, feeling like she'd hit below the belt, "why'd you bring _Karen_? She's my partner."

"So?"

Jim closed his eyes, the sounds of the coffee shop overwhelming him momentarily as his brain refused coherent thought. Anne's voice, there, though he couldn't see her, hadn't talked to her since he'd been blind. Pictures of Anne grating on his mind, chasing each other in a cacophony of light and hair and freckles and eyes and smiles he'd forgotten about.

Jim reached up and pulled off his sunglasses. He had to do this right. "Anne." He said her name slowly, testing it on his tongue. "You can't just go around telling everyone about us."

"Why not? It's not like you didn't go around bragging to everyone about your latest conquest with me."

"I didn't. Honest."

"Honest? Jimmy, when were you ever honest?"

"You don't have to believe me," he said. "But what makes you think I went around bragging? I thought I loved you. That's the only reason I had. I wasn't out to—"

"Put another notch on your bedpost?" she asked.

"No!" He shook his head emphatically.

"So you just want me to shut up? Is that all this meeting is about?"

"I'm certainly not asking to get back together."

She made a scoffing noise.

"Why would you even want to go around telling people—"

"I'm not ashamed, Jimmy. It's not like you raped me. I don't have to hide."

"Then what?" he asked, his eyebrows furrowed, his voice low and hurt.

"I want to make sure people know who you really are."

"And who am I?"

"You're the guy who _seems_ like a good guy, but—"

"Anne! I made one mistake." He shook his head. "And it was a big one, yeah. But I don't make a habit out of this. This isn't who I am."

"No?"

"What more do you want?"

"I don't know, Jimmy. You tell me."

"I can't imagine," he said honestly.

"Me, either."

"Then please." He held a hand out beseechingly.

"I can't promise you anything."

"What else did I do that was so wrong? Why do you hate me _so much_?"

"Jimmy! How can you even ask that? Like nothing happened?"

"Because I was wrong and I did everything in my power to put it right. Just like you taught me."

"Don't throw that at me, Jimmy. Like anything I said or did made any impact on your life."

"It did," he said quietly, leaning forward. "Stop thinking of yourself like a conquest and start thinking of yourself as an incredible woman I couldn't resist."

"Will that make you feel better?"

"It's the truth, Anne. Only the truth." He put his sunglasses back on.

"End of conversation?" she asked. "You throw out one compliment and that's it? Jimmy Dunbar gets the last word in as always?"

"Do you have anything to add?"

"I came here today, didn't I?"

"You did. Thank you." He folded his hands and waited patiently. He could almost feel her looking him over.

"How've you been?" he asked to fill the silence.

"Not bad. You?"

"I've been good."

"Good?"

"And I've been behaving myself." He tossed her a grin.

She sighed. "This isn't a joke. You can't win me over with your little smile."

"That's not what I'm doing." He sat silently and waited again, not going to interrupt her thoughts. She was taking in everything, he knew, but what she would come up with to say, he couldn't tell.

"Karen told me about the fight," she finally said.

Jim ran a finger down the cut on his face and nodded.

"Same as always?"

"Work is, at least."

"I asked Karen to keep an eye on you," she said finally.

"Fine." He pressed his lips together. "That's fine."

"Good-bye, Jimmy."

He stood up and took Hank by the harness. "Bye, Anne. It was good seeing you."

"Don't lie," she said with a laugh.

Jim smiled down at her. "Take care."

Jim ordered Hank to the door, knowing Anne was still watching him and wondering what she was really thinking. But it was after eleven and he had work to do; he headed for the squad. It was over with Anne; he'd have to try to forget her.

* * *

"How'd it go?" Jim asked when Karen walked into the squad.

"Excuse me?" she asked.

"With Anne. How'd it go?"

"How am I supposed to know?"

"Karen, I just need to know, is it over? I'm not asking you to betray her trust or anything like that."

She sat in her chair, quiet a moment. "I think so."

He nodded and turned away.

"You behaved well."

Jim shook his head. "That's not what this was about."

"Not about you always being able to say the right thing?"

"No. This was about ending something properly."

Karen was quiet a minute and Jim went back to work.

"She sighed a lot," Karen finally said. "She didn't bring you up, but I think…"

"I was too nice?" He chewed on his lip a second.

"She's just not over you. She just needs time."

Jim shrugged. "Good."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

She cleared her throat. "And, Jimmy, I wasn't planning to be there. I'm sorry about that. Anne called me this morning and said she couldn't go through with it and could I just come see her. I didn't know she was going to ask me to come in."

Jim shrugged. "Don't worry about it. I'd bet she just wanted you to see what a jerk I am. But I would have said the same thing to her, whether or not you were there."

* * *

"Hey, Karen?" Jim put out a hand before she could open the door to the interview room.

"Yeah?" she asked.

"Could I… Would you let me get the ball rolling on this one?"

She laughed. "I'd love it."

Jim smiled and opened the door. She waited for him to go in and followed slowly. Jim strode purposefully into the room, skirting Michael's chair, making a bee-line for the other side of the table. He pulled the chair out, but didn't sit. He heard Karen close the door quietly. "Morning," he said. "Sleep well?"

"You must have," Michael said.

"Like a baby. You know why?"

"No," Michael said, humoring him, "why?"

"Because I know we have the right guy in custody." Jim smiled down at him, then finally sat.

"How'd you know I didn't move that again?" Michael asked, working for control.

"Again?" Jim shook his head. "I feel like I know you really well, Mike." Jim leaned back. "You wouldn't pull the same thing twice, especially not when it didn't work the first time. Right?"

"Right…" Michael cleared his throat. "What else do you want to know?"

"Nothing much. I just wanted to have a theological discussion with you. Is that okay?"

"Why not? That'll be fun."

"I thought so. After all, it's not every day you get to talk to someone who's worked for a self-proclaimed messiah."

"You want to talk about Josiah?" Michael sounded relieved.

Jim nodded encouragingly. Michael liked to talk about Josiah, probably because then the heat wasn't on him. Jim let both of his hands rest relaxed on top of the table. If they progressed carefully they might get somewhere.

"What do you want to know?" Michael asked.

Jim leaned forward earnestly. "Is Josiah a god?"

Michael scoffed.

"No?"

"No."

"How can you be so sure? Only because you lost the fight at the warehouse?"

"If he was an all-powerful deity, what am I doing here?" Michael asked.

Jim nodded. "Good point." He tapped the table a couple times to emphasize his own point. "Didn't the prophets suffer, though?" The question was met with silence. "They had to prove they had faith, right? And maybe be given the chance to renounce the messiah three times?" Jim waited, staring across the table without blinking. He'd left his sunglasses behind again and hoped he could still produce the desired affects just by looking at a perp. He kept his face open and calm.

"Do _you_ think he's a god?" Michael finally asked.

Jim frowned a second. "I'm asking you. You know him better than anyone, right? Don't you sit on the right hand of the man who killed your father?"

Michael laughed, low. "You're as loony as he is."

Jim smiled. "We have a witness who's going to testify that you killed Samantha."

"Really?"

"You want to get it off your chest? Come clean?"

"I don't do confession; I'm not Catholic anymore," Michael said.

"Let's pretend," Jim said.

"Sins and transgressions, right?" Michael asked. "See, that depends on your definitions of right and wrong."

"You expect us to believe you don't know right from wrong?" Jim gave him a disbelieving look. "Even if you killed your parents yourself, that doesn't mean you didn't know what you were doing."

"If you think I'm ignoring my conscience, that means you think I have one. In which case, what am I doing here?"

Jim smiled. "A couple days ago you told us you were confessing Uncle Josiah's sins because you were having "pangs of conscience" or something like that. You ignoring them now that it's you on the line and not your boss?"

"Stop looking at me like that."

"That's the second time you've yelled at me for smiling, too. Why?"

"Stop toying with me!"

"I don't play games with people in your position, Michael," Jim said calmly. He relaxed back in the chair. "Why'd you kill Samantha?"

"I didn't."

"Sure you did."

"Why would you kill someone?"

Jim scratched his head. "I like to think I'm noble, so I'd want it to be for a good cause. You?"

"I would never pretend to be something I'm not. I'd kill someone because I didn't like them."

Jim nodded. "Understandable." He heard Karen shifting from foot to foot behind Michael, uncomfortable but curious. She seemed to be keeping out of the way so she wouldn't distract Michael, even keeping out of his line of sight. "But you let your parents be killed so they wouldn't suffer, right? Isn't that noble?"

"No. It's sick. They gave birth to me."

"It's wrong?"

"No. It's just sick."

"Didn't it end their suffering?"

"Who am I to say if they are suffering? Who am I to say I didn't just end the only life we have? If there's nothing after this, I didn't do them a favor."

"Then why?"

"Because they were in the way. I was in their way, so they sent me places to get rid of me. They were in my way because I just wanted to be home."

"You made a new home with Josiah."

"I learned a lot."

Jim leaned forward. "So you wouldn't subscribe to his philosophy of ending a life for a good cause?"

"He wouldn't kill anyone, good cause or not."

"No?"

"He doesn't believe in killing. That's why he experiments with medicines. He wants to cure people because he doesn't believe there's anything after this life. He's the Messiah of the Now, so to speak. Get it while the getting's good."

"Then the poison?"

"Was an accident—whoops, that one kills people. If people ask for it for themselves, he gives it. Otherwise it's off-limits."

"Then what's it doing getting around? And why'd some of his followers die from it, like Samantha?"

"One of the other guys, he works with me sometimes, he distributes the stuff without Josiah knowing."

"But he doesn't charge for it?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"He thinks he's doing humanity a favor. And money doesn't mean much. He'd rather have the contacts he makes than the cash."

"So you would kill someone you didn't like?" Jim asked. "How?"

"As painfully as possible. You?"

"I wouldn't want them to suffer. That wouldn't be noble, to torture them."

Michael tried to laugh, but it fell short. "You're the knight in shining armor, I'm your adversary. Come get me, detective."

Jim smiled. "Yeah, but I like you. You don't deserve to die."

"No?"

"Why'd you kill Samantha?"

Michael pushed his chair back suddenly and walked away. Jim tensed, ready. "Why would I kill someone I didn't hate?" he finally asked from over by the window.

"And in the least painful way possible? And then shoot her after she was dead so it looked like the same death as Glenn Bartlett's?"

"I didn't like Glenn. He suffered from that gunshot. He couldn't move hardly. But he felt it. He'd been working for me, Josiah didn't even know I had my own following. I played with him, tested everything Josiah taught me on him. He was going to betray me. And when Josiah found out Samantha had a baby boy, he thought Glenn was the father. I didn't know he was her cousin, but I sure didn't mind killing him. Even if he was a friend."

"And you were in love with Samantha, weren't you?"

"I would have died for her."

"That's saying a lot, coming from you."

"Yeah…"

"So why?"

"I got scared. Of dying myself. I thought I would have died for her, but when it came down to her or me… At least she was happy. She came willingly and she agreed to save me." Jim waited in the silence that followed. "Samantha was Uncle Josiah's favorite little girl. But she didn't like him that much, not as a man. As a messiah, she worshipped him."

"She loved you?"

"No. She slept with a lot of guys. But I kept getting her pregnant!" Michael kicked something. "I knew something no one else knew. No matter how much Uncle Josiah tried, he always ended up with female babies, if he got a girl pregnant. He couldn't have boys. Then Samantha gets pregnant, and it keeps coming up male. And since she was diabetic, she had to have all this prenatal care, ultrasounds all the time.

"I made her miscarry the first one. I studied chemistry enough, and Josiah taught me enough, I knew how to do it. It almost killed her anyway.

"The second time she got scared. She swore she'd just disappear for a while and give the baby up. But she never came back. She couldn't give up the baby, but she knew she couldn't come back with a boy.

"The third time…" Michael trailed off.

Jim waited a whole minute, but Michael didn't pick back up. "The third time?"

"I loved her. I did. I promised to take her away, just the two of us. But she said she was a prophet and she couldn't leave when the message had to be spread. I said that was crazy, but she insisted!

"That's when I found out she was sick. She was recruiting people to the cause. Josiah had only wanted to help people who were already in trouble, but Samantha was causing trouble. She hooked up with Brian—Reg—and they were wiping out bank accounts. Josiah thought all the money was coming from her trust fund. He didn't know she was creating lost souls."

"Isn't that noble?" Jim asked after a moment. "Your intentions when you killed her, you were saving people."

"I loved her! And I don't like people! I should have let her keep doing—I don't know why I didn't. I should have encouraged her. The world would have been a better place. Everyone would have been the same, eventually. All poor and miserable."

* * *

"Insanity plea?" Tom asked.

"Insanity plea," Marty agreed.

"Guys," Jim said, wrinkling his nose distastefully. "Don't."

"How'd you get him to talk?" Tom asked.

Jim shrugged. "Everything with him's always been so carefully controlled… I thought if I just relaxed and let go, maybe…" He shrugged again. It had helped that Michael seemed to become annoyed every time Jim had smiled at him on previous interviews.

"And you, our resident control freak?" Tom said with a laugh. "Whatever works."

"How'd it feel, letting go?" Marty asked.

"Good, actually." Jim carefully measured his steps and walked back to his desk slowly. Some things, he had to have control, but others, he could let them get out of hand. The world wouldn't end.

"You'd only kill someone for a good cause?" Marty asked.

Jim sank into his chair. "If I had to."

"But that doesn't extend to anything with eight legs?"

"What?"

"Spiders, Jim."

"Oh!" He'd forgotten about that.

The interview room door opened and Karen stepped out.

"I still feel bad about that," he said, then raised his voice to call over to Karen. "Karen, I'm sorry for making you kill that spider."

Her footsteps paused. After a moment she said, "It's okay. It's not like I've never killed a spider before that."

"Is he done with his statement?" Tom asked.

"Not yet. It's pretty long and poetic from what I saw," Karen said.

"Does that mean the case is almost over?"

"I'll believe it when I see it," Jim said.

Tom laughed. "If that's the case, we'll be working this until we die."

Jim let out a deep breath, puffing his cheeks out. "We should celebrate." That suggestion was met with groans all around. Jim laughed. "_Not_ tonight," he clarified.

"Good," Karen said. "Then I'm game."

"Me, too," Tom said.

Jim looked over at Marty.

"Yeah," Marty said.

There as a knock on the interview room door.

"He's done," Karen said.

* * *

"Well?" Fisk asked. "Any loose ends we need to tie up?"

"Rob Mulhaney's still looking into the death of his son," Jim said. "He's taking over looking into Uncle Josiah. He'll pick up the contents of the filing cabinet in the morning."

"We have a statement on the deaths of Glenn Bartlett and Samantha Whittleton. We found Artez. Laine Campbell's on her way home to stay with her mom a while. Mrs. Whittleton has a new grandson. And our cop friend was a suicide," Tom listed.

"It looks like Michael's really 23," Karen said. "I'm guessing Uncle Josiah changed it, either so he'd seem less of a threat, or just in case anyone started looking into the deaths of Mr. and Mrs. Hershach."

"Do we know what really happened when they died?" Fisk settled onto the desk next to Jim's.

"We'd have to talk to Josiah Wilkins about that, but Michael was pretty adamant about it not being natural," Karen said.

"Artez and DeLana will testify?"

"Against Michael, yeah. They didn't know much about Josiah."

"What about Samantha and those phone calls?"

"Near as we can tell, she and Michael made the tapes as a joke, but as for who called while he was in jail, he's not talking." Karen sighed. "It looks like he has as many friends as Josiah does and he's not giving them up."

"I don't know who's more crazy," Fisk said, "Michael Hershach or this Uncle Josiah character. What's our feel on Uncle Josiah?"

Jim leaned back in his chair. "I wouldn't put it past the guy to make Michael think he's taking one for the team," Jim said. Even though they had a confession, he still had his doubts as to the finality of the case. He doubted Michael was solely at fault, but he also doubted they'd get much real evidence on Josiah.

"You think maybe he's just the fall guy?"

"Maybe."

"But can we prove it?" Karen asked. She started tapping something on her desk.

"If Michael's just taking the rap, why'd he try to frame Uncle Josiah in the first place?" Marty asked. "We know he's capable of murder, so who's to say Uncle J isn't completely innocent? If this guy is just some warped pastor, why frame him? And then why come back and admit he's the one who did the crime?"

"To throw us off? Sometimes the best way to mislead someone is to take them straight to the truth, then prove the opposite. Josiah's good at that," Jim said. "He could easily be more guilty than Michael."

"We still can't prove any of it."

"No. We can't," Jim said sadly.

"To top it off, we have a confession. That's a bit of a problem if you want to pin the crime on someone else."

"The gun was registered to Michael," Karen said.

"All the fingerprints went back to Michael and his buddy Antoine," Marty said.

"Even the chemicals from the dumpster, they don't point to Uncle J," Tom said.

"Same thing happened when Walter was investigating him as a kid," Jim said. "They could never pin anything on him."

"Maybe Mulhaney will get something," Karen said hopefully.

"Yeah… You know, I really want to talk to Josiah again, though."

"What for?"

"I have to, Karen. You weren't there." Jim shook his head. "Even if it has nothing to do with this case, I need to see him again. We know where he's going to be tomorrow; how can we pass up that opportunity?" He smiled over at her.

"All right…" she slowly agreed.

"And if he pulls something again?" Tom asked.

"Let's just hope I won't fall into his trap."

"You better not," Fisk warned. He stood up. "Get to a stopping point, then go home, get some rest. We'll tie everything up tomorrow."

* * *


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

Jim was apprehensive as he walked home. It was almost Halloween, but the scariest thing he could think of was about confronting Uncle Josiah tomorrow. He would just have to keep his wits about him and think of what Dr. Galloway had told him. He had a better idea of who he was as a person, and he hoped that would be enough. Having Karen there would help. He trusted her, amazingly enough. He actually trusted her more than a lot of people he'd met over the years, more than people he'd known eons longer.

He felt a little jealous, thinking of Karen going to some party in a few days. He missed his party days a little. All he had to look forward to this year was maybe a pumpkin, if Christie remembered. And even then, he wouldn't be able to look deep into its eyes and see the candle glowing within. He was almost tempted, for a moment, to take Karen up on that offer to chaperone her and her blind date. He'd like to spend the evening with friends, like he used to. Karen didn't quite fit into the category yet, but maybe someday. For now, he had a wife waiting for him at home.

It was late, almost eleven, what with waiting around for the confession and trying to tie up any loose ends on the case. A long day and all the detectives had admitted to feeling drained, glad the case was pretty much over. Karen said she had a date with a gallon of ice cream. Marty was going late-night candy shopping for trick-or-treaters because that was his job, to buy candy, and he'd procrastinated too long this year. Tom said he was going out to watch one of the games at a bar, and Marty was going to join him later. They invited Jim and Karen, but Jim begged off to spend time with his wife and Karen informed them she'd had enough of bars to last a lifetime.

"Christie?" He shut the door behind him and let Hank off the harness. The dog shook himself, then ran off to relax, maybe to find a toy or a bone to play with. "Christie?" he called a little louder.

"Shh," she said, running up. She put a hand on his arm to make sure he didn't worry about where she was. "We have a project tonight," she said quietly, conspiratorially.

Jim pulled off his coat and hung it from the coat rack. He smiled. "No kiss?"

She leaned up to kiss him. "Remember watching the kid this morning?"

He nodded. "I've been looking forward to carving a pumpkin the whole way home."

"Good. Keep that enthusiasm. I got five."

"Five?" Jim laughed. "Isn't that overkill?"

"Just in case. See, his pumpkin didn't turn out so well. It sort of went to pumpkin hell."

Jim grimaced. "Are all his fingers still intact?"

"Yeah. I just thought it might be nice to send a pumpkin over. And we'll keep one for ourselves."

"And three to practice on?"

"If they turn out okay, I thought we could put them in the lobby." She took his hand and pulled him across the apartment to the kitchen.

Jim felt the floor change under his feet. "Newspaper?"

"Tons. There's no way anything's getting on the floor." She pulled him further, toward the bedroom. "You change, I have the pumpkins sitting on the counter, waiting."

Jim pulled off his tie as he walked into the bedroom. "I just love a good lobotomy," he said. Christie had already pulled out an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt for him. He pulled off his work clothes and handed them to her while he changed. Barefoot, he headed back to the kitchen. Hank was sniffing at the counter. "He's gonna love this," Jim called to Christie. He ran a hand over the counter until it encountered the first pumpkin, then grabbed it and hefted it to the floor. "How'd you get these all home?"

He heard her walk up. "Conspiracy with the neighbor lady. She and I both walked out of the building at the same time to see the disaster the kid had made of the pumpkin, so we went shopping together."

"Is she making any jack-o'-lanterns, too?"

"Just one."

"This thing's ten pounds, at least."

"That's the small one," Christie told him. "It took us three trips to get them up here."

Jim knelt on the floor next to the small pumpkin, suddenly at a loss. When he was younger he would take a marker and draw on the face before cutting. He hadn't thought of the practical aspects, just the fact that he'd be able to feel the incisions. "Now what?"

"Now we be careful," Christie said. She was rifling around one of the drawers.

Jim ran his hands over the pumpkin. It felt cold, the shell hard over the soft flesh inside. At the top the stem was rougher than he remembered. He guessed he'd never paid much attention to the way it actually felt. He counted the ridges in the smooth shell and felt a lopsidedness on the right. He turned the pumpkin, trying to figure out the best place for the face.

"Here," Christie said.

Jim reached up carefully, knowing she would have a large, sharp knife in hand. He gently touched the blade to get a feel for it. He looked back up at his wife. "Honestly, now what?"

She was sliding another pumpkin around the countertop, but stopped and was quiet. "Good luck?" She bent down and kissed the top of his head. "Don't cut off any fingers?"

Jim held the knife in his right hand and ran his left around the pumpkin again. He shook his head. "What if you draw it on there for me?"

"Then what?"

Jim stared at the pumpkin in his mind, trying to picture it. "Score it. If I can feel it, I can follow the cut and carve off the top."

Christie knelt down next to him. She took the knife and he heard her scratch a line around the pumpkin with the tip. "Can you feel that?"

Jim ran his hand over the top and smiled. "Perfect." She handed the knife back.

"I'll draw out the others for you, too."

Jim bit his tongue as he concentrated on sliding the knife through the skin, then pulling in around. He turned the pumpkin and slowly followed the ridge Christie had scratched for him, careful to keep his guide hand out of the way. "I should apply to medical school," he joked when he pulled the new lid off the pumpkin. He set the top aside and held up the rest. "You wanna scoop out the innards while I lop the tops off?"

"Jim," she said distastefully, "don't use words like innards."

He laughed. "What do you want me to say? It's gonna look like a head. You want me to call this the brains?" He stuck his hand into the seedy goop and pulled out a handful, letting it run between his fingers and onto the newspaper beside him.

Hank had been lying right behind Jim, keeping an eye on the whole operation, but he backed away in a crouched position when he saw what hit the newspaper. He whined.

Christie handed Jim a towel. "How can you stick your hand in there?" It sounded like she was wrinkling up her nose.

"Roll your sleeves up, darling, and I'll show you." He pulled her down beside him, taking one of her hands even as she struggled.

"Men," she said, then gasped as her fingers submerged in the innards.

"Here's to teamwork," Jim said as he let go of her hand and moved over. He got up and lined the other pumpkins up on the floor. "This isn't so bad," he said as he moved between pumpkins.

"Just wait until you see what I have marked out for the faces," Christie said wickedly.

He heard her flicking seeds onto the floor.

"Revenge is sweet," she told him.

Jim sniffed, the scent of pumpkin almost overwhelming. "I wouldn't call it sweet. More of an earthy smell." He rubbed his nose on the sleeve of his t-shirt to wipe off a bit of juice that Christie flicked at him. He ran his hand along the line she had cut. "Last one. Did you already do the faces?"

"Sure did." She grunted.

Jim pulled off the last top by the stem and set it aside. He sat back and turned. She seemed to be a few pumpkins behind, from her position in the line-up. "Tell me what you're doing?"

"You know what I'm doing," she said shortly.

He tried to picture her, probably wearing jeans, her sleeves pushed up. She'd be wearing a long-sleeve shirt of some sort because it was cold out. Her hair was probably straggling into her face, the wisps covered in slime from where she kept sweeping at them to get them out of her face. The way she was breathing, she wasn't having that good of a time. That was probably why she'd hung up on him when he suggested they take a pottery class together. She wasn't much for getting things under her fingernails.

Jim slid over slowly, careful to avoid a pile of seeds. He moved behind her and knelt, one arm to either side of her.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"I know this isn't your favorite part."

She sighed. "It's just the easy part. That's why I get stuck with it."

He shrugged, close enough he knew she could feel it from where he was behind her. He leaned forward and worked alongside her, scooping as many seeds as he could.

They scooted over to the next pumpkin. Jim nuzzled her neck as he scooped seeds.

She giggled. "You're good at multi-tasking."

Jim tipped the pumpkin to the side and let juice drip into a bowl she had set out. This pumpkin was massive, almost two feet in diameter.

"Shouldn't you be doing your own part?" she asked.

"I might need a bit of a guide on the faces, so I thought I'd better help you."

"You just felt sorry for me, admit it." She reached back and touched his arm with a cold and slimy hand.

Jim grimaced.

"Sorry," she said.

"It's okay. I've been covered in worse things."

She laughed.

"Done," Jim said a half hour later. He grabbed for the towel, but found it already saturated. He stood up carefully among the mess and walked over to the sink to rinse off. "Now comes the hard part."

"We get five chances," Christie said, joining him at the sink.

Jim flicked water at her.

"Let me get the seeds out of the way." He listened as she rolled up newspaper, stepping out of her way as she tugged pages out from under his feet. He grabbed the garbage can and brought it over, helping her stuff the trash inside. "There," she said. "Ready."

Jim put the garbage can back and knelt beside the biggest pumpkin. "Let's start big, that'll be easier, right?" He felt along the floor for the knife. Christie sat beside him, out of the way, but ready to help if needed. Jim felt the small incisions Christie had made for the face, tipping the pumpkin so he had a better angle to look it over. He frowned. "I don't think you should have made teeth."

"Too frightening?"

"Too hard." There were gaps between teeth, seven teeth in a gaping mouth. "He had periodontal disease?"

Christie giggled nervously as Jim took up the knife.

Jim swallowed hard as he started on one triangular eye. The triangle was pretty big. He held the pumpkin tilted between his knees, his tongue held between his teeth. He concentrated on the shape and keeping his hand out of the way. The triangle dropped inside the pumpkin. Jim grinned and reached in, handing the piece to Christie. "Easy." He held the pumpkin up for inspection. "How's it look?"

She laughed. "That's just the first eye. You have nine more eyes, five mouths, and three noses. Oh, and I made hair on one, so you'll have to cut around the top a little."

Jim laughed at her. "I better get busy. Get me a beer?"

"Alcohol and a carving knife?" But Christie opened the fridge and carefully stepped around pumpkins to set the beer on the floor.

The eyes and nose were easy enough, but the mouth and seven teeth were much more difficult. "If I break off a tooth, we can just glue it back on, right?"

"I don't think you can glue a wet pumpkin."

Jim shrugged. He slowly moved the knife through Christie's rough sketch, breaking off bits to make it easier to cut. When the last piece broke off he smoothed out the cuts with the knife, then set it aside and brailled the face. Starting at the top with both hands he ran his fingers down the front, checking the evenness of the eyes, which weren't quite symmetrical, but he hoped that with the ridges of the pumpkin skin it wouldn't be noticeable. The nose was in place beneath the eyes, then the mouth with the lumpy teeth.

"It looks okay," Christie said from where she was sitting nearby.

Jim looked up while still exploring the face. "Just okay?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

"It looks like an ugly face, just like it's supposed to. Who do you think you are, Picasso?"

"It looks like something one of the Impressionists would have done. Hideous and grotesque, but almost recognizable as human." Jim let a couple fingers stray into the mouth, then pulled back quickly with a pained yelp and put them in his mouth. "He bit me!" he mumbled around his fingers.

Christie seized his hand.

Jim laughed. "Never insult a jack-o'-lantern."

She threw his hand back. "Oh, you're fine," she complained.

Jim hefted the jack-o'-lantern over to her. "Here you go, ma'am. If it's good enough, you want to deliver it?"

"You want to give the kid the big one?"

"Why not?" Jim shrugged. "The bigger, the better, right? Do we have any little candles? You could put one in and take it over."

"Sure." She stood up, setting the pumpkin next to him. "Keep an eye on him," she instructed.

"He's not going anywhere."

"I wasn't talking to you." She made a noise like she was sticking her tongue out at him.

Jim grinned as he picked up the knife and scooted over to the next victim. He felt like a kid, younger than even when he met Christie.

"I'll be back," she said, walking into the room, now with shoes on. He heard her stop and pick up the gift. "It looks good," she said, "really." She kissed the top of his head and walked off.

Jim ran his hand over the next pumpkin, feeling her cuts. "Christie!" He wrinkled his nose as she opened the door to the apartment to leave. "Hearts? This is supposed to be scary!"

"This was revenge, remember?" she asked sweetly.

He heard the door click shut.

Jim was half-done with the third pumpkin by the time Christie came back. "Success," she said.

"Good." He glanced up. "Did it really look okay?"

"Yes, it really did look okay." She slipped her shoes off. "How're you doing?"

"Couldn't be better." He grinned, waiting.

"Jim!"

He laughed. He'd gotten his own revenge for the heart-shaped eyes. Instead of changing the shape, he'd done exactly as she'd drawn, though he wasn't sure just how pretty they looked. Then he'd gone through the kitchen utensils and pulled out the butcher knife, jamming it into the side of the jack-o'-lantern's head. He'd even gone through the closet and found a velvet Christmas bow to wrap around the stem like a pretty hair ribbon.

Christie ruffled his hair. "She was supposed to be pretty."

"I would have done a little red paint for blood, but I wasn't sure which tube was the red. You should label them."

"You know where I keep my craft paint?" she asked, surprised.

"I know where _everything_ in this apartment is." It had been a long year, learning his way around New York. While Christie'd been at work, Jim had been alone at home a lot with nothing to do but familiarize himself with the place or listen to the radio. After battling the city, it was a relief to be able to search through boxes and closets in the apartment. Christie was less precise with how the cupboards and closets were organized, anything out of sight she might have figured Jim wouldn't need access to, and so she didn't bother to keep them precisely ordered like she kept the rest of the apartment, but she was close enough he still felt confident he could find anything if he needed.

Christie made a little wondering noise as she squatted beside him to get a good look at what he'd done to her pretty pumpkin.

Jim ran his hand over the half-moon eyes he'd just carved. "This one doesn't have a nose?" he asked.

"I couldn't think of a good shape, so I figured he wouldn't need one."

"Who needs a nose?" Jim mumbled as he carved out the mouth, a grimace with two fangs hanging down. That was the easy mouth and he set the knife down to braille the finished face. "You're right, he's gruesome enough without a nose." He held the pumpkin up for inspection.

"Yup," Christie said from near the sink where she was fitting the girly pumpkin with a tea candle. Jim heard her light a match. "Do you think it'll be okay with the knife?"

"We definitely won't put her down in the lobby, that's for sure."

Christie laughed, but it was the laugh she used when she thought she'd figured out an ulterior motive of her husband's, or if she was just starting to get angry with him. "You didn't want her in the lobby, did you?"

Jim shrugged. "I don't think hearts are exactly a good Halloween shape."

"And you're embarrassed—"

"Christie, it's a pumpkin." He turned to her, abandoning the project, but staying seated on the floor. "There's absolutely nothing embarrassing about a pumpkin. Unless I do a really bad job carving it. But I'd hope you'd tell me if I did poorly."

"I promise I would," she said.

"I thought it would be funny. I'm sorry. A carving knife in the head at Halloween…" He tried to smile at her.

"Don't worry. It's not like I was serious. I was just trying something different."

Jim turned back, knife in hand, to the pumpkin. Holidays were always stressful, and Halloween was no different. He didn't even want to think about their first Christmas after he'd been shot. He bit his lip and forced himself to concentrate on what he was doing. He'd been truthful when he asked for a mulligan—there was a lot about the whole year he would like to forget, or wished had never even happened. And she'd put up with him through the whole thing.

His cell phone rang. "Can you get that?" Jim felt the goop and grit from the pumpkin on his fingers, but just kept carving.

Christie sighed. "You know it's work," she said as she crossed over to the table by the door.

"You don't have to tell me no one else calls, just answer it." Jim rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. He'd been concentrating too hard on the shapes and trying to make them presentable to sighted people, and he was giving himself a headache. One pumpkin had been fun, but five? He almost hoped there'd been another homicide and they were getting a new case already.

"Hello?" Christie said into the phone.

Jim tilted his head, one ear toward her. She listened a moment, making agreeable little grunts like someone was asking her questions.

Christie crossed over and held the phone next to his ear. Jim pinned it to his ear with his shoulder and kept working on the pumpkins slowly. "Dunbar," he said.

"Jim, I hate to do this to you," Fisk said, "but I think you need to be here. Michael Hershach's down in the Tombs. It sounds like he's screaming bloody murder. I'm on my way in right now. I thought, since you're the only one who's really gotten him to talk…"

"No problem. I'll have Christie bring me in."

"I already asked Russo to pick you up. He's right by you."

"Oh." The buzzer rang from the street and Jim flinched as Christie answered and Russo's voice filled the intercom.

Fisk filled him in on what was going on, everything the officers had told him so far. Jim tried to ignore the knock on the door and Christie playing hostess and Marty standing near the coat rack, sounding uncomfortable.

"One of the officers said Michael keeps yelling, "I want to confess,"" Fisk was telling him.

* * *

Marty yawned as he checked the address of the building. He sighed. If Karen had answered her phone, he wouldn't be there, but with her gone, the boss had immediately called him and asked him to pick up Dunbar and bring him down.

He couldn't imagine anything important that kid could have to tell them, not in the middle of the night like this. They already had a confession, however much of it might be bogus. It had better be good, dragging them down there now when they'd just left, but Marty had a suspicion that maybe Michael'd planned it as revenge of some sort, just a joke to get them down there. He really didn't trust the kid. He also didn't understand why the boss didn't just let Dunbar's wife take him down there.

Marty rang the buzzer of the building next to Dunbar's name. His wife answered and buzzed him up. He wanted to just let her know he was there and have her send her husband down, but there was a chance Fisk hadn't gotten a hold of them yet and they wouldn't know why he was there, so he trudged to the elevator and rode it up to the sixth floor, hands in his pockets, shoulders slumped.

He was wondering how he was supposed to look Christie in the eye, knowing how Jim had cheated on her. He'd said it didn't matter and he wasn't supposed to know about it. And he could work with Jim, he knew, like normal. But he hadn't seen Christie since Walter Clark's retirement party when he met her, back when he was just starting to respect Jim. Then he'd thought she was great, beautiful, a perfect wife for Dunbar. But now Marty couldn't understand how she could just ignore what her husband had done, not when she could have any number of guys who would worship the ground she walked on and never look away.

All he could keep thinking was maybe she'd stayed because Jim had gotten shot and gone blind. But that was pity, and Marty knew that was one thing Jim couldn't stand. He wouldn't be the kind of guy to let her stay with him just because she felt bad for him. He would never allow it.

And maybe Christie wasn't the kind of girl to feel sorry for anyone. So why had she stayed with a jerk like Dunbar?

Marty rocked back and forth from the balls of his feet to his heels. He knocked and waited nervously.

Christie Dunbar answered the door, looking concerned and mildly confused. She smiled a little and let him in, no questions asked. She must be used to this sort of thing, in the middle of the night, getting calls about cases. Marty's wife sometimes still couldn't quite accept it.

Marty looked down at his shoes and stayed by the door. He let his eyes roam around, though he kept his head down. The place was nice, like it was professionally decorated. His own place was homey and lived-in, but he had to admit it didn't have a lot of character, unless you called kids' toys strewn on the floor "décor." His apartment was practical, this one was more stylish. He wondered if Jim had helped, or if it had just been Christie's doing.

Jim was on the phone, sitting on the floor in the kitchen in front of a line of pumpkins. One jack-o'-lantern with a carving knife stuck in the head was sitting next to the sink on the counter, glowing brightly, a red bow almost blood-like adorning the stem. Jim was listening intently, probably talking to Fisk right then.

"Uh, something else came up in the case," Marty said to Christie, in case she didn't yet know anything.

She raised her eyebrows. "Business as usual." She walked into the kitchen behind Jim and blew out the candle. She bent down and took the knife from her husband's hand, even as he was absently smoothing out a cut in a triangular eye, but mostly listening to the phone.

Jim relinquished the knife and stood, following Christie to the sink, leaning over her to rinse his hands, then reaching for the kitchen towel to dry them, every movement easy, even more precise than he was at work. Marty could tell the difference as he moved about the kitchen and into the rest of the apartment, that this was his home and he was comfortable there, even multi-tasking.

He wondered, after what Jim had once admitted to him about moving around freely only at home and the squad, if Michael moving the furniture at the squad really had shaken Jim up, even more than he let on. Thinking about it, he'd only been blind, what, a year and a half? That didn't seem all that long, not considering he was already back on the streets, working, just like he must have before.

Marty didn't want to think about it. As far as he was concerned, Jim had always been blind and that's just the way things were. He wasn't about to start thinking of Jim before he'd been shot, before he'd been assigned to make their lives hell at the 8th. Jim was Jim and that's all he needed to know. He didn't need to know anything about his infidelity and problems with his wife, especially if all that was over now.

Marty took a few more steps in so he could see the jack-o'-lanterns better. He screwed up his mouth appreciatively. "Not bad," he said. Christie looked up from where she'd been cleaning the counter. "My kid and I usually carve a pumpkin, but I've been working so late the past couple weeks, we haven't gotten a chance yet."

"You want one?" Christie asked sweetly.

Marty shook his head. "Nah. I'm sure we'll get around to it."

"Take one. I got five sort of as a joke."

"I couldn't—"

"What am I going to do with four pumpkins? We gave one to the kid downstairs already. Take one, Marty." She lifted the one Jim had just been working on and evened up a bit of the mouth he hadn't quite finished. "She's mine," she said with a small grin, gesturing behind her at the one with the heart-shaped eyes. "But this one has absolutely no sentimental value."

"Um… thanks. Really." Marty looked over as Jim came out of the bedroom wearing socks and carrying a pair of tennis shoes. Jim settled onto the couch, the phone still to his ear, nodding occasionally, and slipping into the shoes.

"We'll be there shortly," he said, then flipped the phone closed.

Marty cleared his throat as Jim looked up, looking like he was searching the apartment for Marty. Jim's gaze settled on him. "I'll go get the car, if you're ready. I had to park a block away."

Jim nodded, tying his shoes. "Yeah, I'll be down in just a second." He whistled for Hank and the dog came bounding out of the bedroom. The dog wagged its tail when it looked up and saw Marty.

"Here's the pumpkin," Christie said, settling the lid on top.

The dog looked up, almost looking concerned when it saw the pumpkin. Hank's head cocked to the side, muscles tense.

Marty took the gift and hurried out, breathing deeper once he was in the hall.

* * *

Jim put one hand in the pocket of his leather jacket as he waited for Marty's car to pull up in front of the building. His hand was clenched and he was chewing on his lip. Fisk had run through the original confession a little with him, speculating what Michael could mean. He wanted them all to be prepared for whatever might jump up. Jim had to admit, he couldn't fathom what else there could be. He'd been sure they were done with the case and all he'd have to worry about would be crossing paths with Uncle Josiah on some other case because he was pretty sure they weren't done with him.

A car drove by, not stopping, but Jim's heart raced anyway and his whole body leaned forward. Hank shifted position, thinking Jim might be ready to go.

Another one. This one stopped and Jim headed in that direction, hoping it wasn't just a taxi thinking he needed a lift. He heard an automatic window slide down.

"You got it?" Marty asked.

"Yeah." Jim headed for the open window, feeling around for the handle. It was difficult to find handles sometimes on unfamiliar cars. He could tell it was a lower, sportier car, so he ran his hand down the door near the crease and grasped the handle finally, pulling it open. Then he moved back, wondering where the handle would be for the back door.

"You'll have to, uh, just flip the seat up," Marty said. "There's only two doors."

Jim stopped his search, letting go of Hank's harness and just keeping the leash on his wrist as he reached in and pushed the seat back up. He ordered Hank in, pushed the seat back, then hurried in, still tense.

Marty shifted and pulled away from the curb. Jim stared out the window, feeling the movements of the car and knowing when Marty was ready to shift gears. He'd had a manual transmission years ago himself, before he married Christie, and he got rid of it because she wanted an automatic. He'd tried to teach her to drive a stick shift, but she never did get the hang of it. She complained she had more important things to think about while driving.

"You can relax, Dunbar. Or do you want to drive?"

Jim turned away from the window, not having realized both of his hands were again clenched on his knees as he sat there. "It's your car; I'll let you drive."

"Then relax. I'll get there as fast as I can."

Jim shook his head and faced straight ahead. "You know, standing on the sidewalk back there, waiting what, thirty seconds for you? A whole thirty seconds or less, when I could have been on my way to the station… I just want to be there already. I don't like waiting any more than I like not having control over every little thing." Jim drummed his fingers on the arm of the door. "I'd probably feel better just walking there, even if it took longer, because I'd feel like I was getting somewhere."

"Would it make you feel better if I weave in and out of traffic?"

Jim smiled. "Is Tom coming?"

"I dunno. Fisk couldn't get a hold of him or Karen. I'm sure he's going to keep trying, though. I stopped by the bar I was supposed to meet Tom at, but he wasn't there."

"Are we there yet?" Jim asked a minute later to fill the silence.

"That's not funny," Marty said without any humor in his voice.

Jim laughed.

"I have a kid, Dunbar. It's not funny." Marty pulled over. "But yeah, we're here."

Jim opened the door as soon as the car was in park, before Marty had even turned it off. He pushed up the seat and let Hank out. "Which way?" he asked when Marty joined him.

"This way." Marty snickered.

Jim looked over at him as he followed Marty toward the station. "What?"

"Nice shirt."

Jim cocked his head to the side. He didn't want to ask Marty of all people, but he had a lot of old shirts, given to him over the years with different slogans. "Which one is it?"

""NYPD Mascot,"" Marty said, laughing. "We should get you one that says, K-9 Unit, or something."

Jim grinned. "Hank would love that. He's a police dog at heart."

"You, uh, like having the dog?"

"I like him better than my cane," Jim said. "He's a great dog."

Marty was quiet a second and Jim didn't want to think what was going through Marty's mind. But he didn't want Marty to think he enjoyed needing to rely on Hank or anything. It was better just to be honest.

"My kid keeps bugging me to get a dog." Marty opened the door to the building.

Jim entered in front of Marty. "All you have to do is get shot; you can get one just like him."

"Thanks, but no thanks."

Jim led the way, hurrying Hank down the hall, almost leading him. His cell rang and he flipped it out. "Dunbar."

"Where the hell are you?" Fisk barked.

Jim didn't slacken his pace at all. "We're here. We're upstairs. Give us ten seconds." He flipped the phone closed. "Ready?" he asked Marty in the elevator.

"Yeah. You?"

Jim shook his head. "No idea."

"You know, we've never interviewed together before…"

Jim bit his lip. "And we definitely have different styles." The doors dinged open.

"Ready?" Fisk asked.

* * *

Jim took the back as always. Fisk was in the lead. Jim listened in the corridor. Quiet, mostly. It was late, after midnight, after lights-out, and he was pretty sure the lights in the area had been dimmed.

He could hear Michael whispering. Fisk stopped walking, then Marty stopped. Jim and Hank joined them.

"There you are! It's about time!" Michael exclaimed when he looked up from his cell to see the detectives and the lieutenant there. He sounded exasperated and impatient.

Jim kept his hold on Hank's harness. If Michael was calm enough, they'd move him into an interview room.

"They want me to shut up," Michael continued. "Tell them I can't, if I value my life. If they leave me alone… If I'm alone… The bigger the scene, the more witnesses." He was tense, pacing.

"He's just been loud," an officer said. "He hasn't tried to hurt himself."

"I don't need to hurt myself! My life is in danger!"

The officer snorted, a little laugh of disbelief. "We haven't laid a hand on him."

"Don't laugh," Michael said, his voice getting low, but far from calm.

"You want to talk?" Jim asked him.

"Oh, fck me," Michael said, sounding like he'd noticed Jim for the first time. "Do I think a cop with a fcking guide dog's going to be able to keep me safe? You're completely blind, aren't you?" He really sounded shocked. "I thought at least you could see something. Fck, I'm completely dead." He kicked something, probably the bed. "Where's the lady?"

"She's not coming," Jim said evenly, ignoring his tirade. "You're dealing with us tonight."

"Good."

Jim raised his eyebrows above his sunglasses, but didn't say anything.

"There's no reason for her to be involved." Michael came over, close to the bars. "Chances are, if you go much further with this investigation, you're gonna be on the list, too."

Jim looked over at him, the first time they'd been face to face since the fight. He sounded smaller, more vulnerable. Like he was just a kid who wouldn't be able to put up much of a fight. Jim felt his shoulder start to ache again. This kid could hold his own, he knew that first-hand, right? Or was Jim just overestimating his own abilities?

"They gave me a message," Michael whispered. "I'm next."

"Who gave you a message?" Jim asked. "If you talk to us, maybe we can help."

Michael laughed.

"You said you wanted to confess."

"To a priest, dim shit. I already confessed to you, didn't I? I was asking for my last rites."

"How'd you get a message?"

"From heaven."

Michael started to move away. Jim reached out and touched a bar to orient himself to the cell. "If we can't help you, who can?"

"Not God, that's for sure." It sounded like he stopped in the far corner of the cell, facing away from the officers.

"Michael!" Jim reprimanded. "Talk to us!"

"Get me a fcking priest," Michael whispered, sounding near tears.

Jim turned to where he thought Fisk and Russo were standing. He nodded his head toward the cell. "Can we move him?"

"Yeah," Fisk said quietly. "Let's get him in a room and get a priest."

Jim followed them toward an interview room. Fisk broke away to get a priest.

Jim stopped Marty when they got inside, a hand on his arm. "Can you read him? When he's talking, his facial expressions and… the way he moves?"

"You want to know if you're missing anything?" Marty hesitated and moved away, pacing a little in the small room.

Jim walked Hank over to the far side of the table and pulled out a chair. He sat, leaning forward, elbows on the table, hands clasped at his mouth. He blew on his hands, puffing his cheeks out, thinking desperately of anything Michael had ever said that could help, of any clue they might have.

"He looked… really bad," Marty said. "Like he was on something. Pale, shaking. He looked skinny. I mean, he was skinny before, but now he looks sick."

"You think someone slipped him something?"

"Normally I'd say, how could they get down here, but after the fiasco with the Mulhaney kid… I don't know, Dunbar."

Jim rubbed a hand over his forehead. "Damn."

"You want to help him?"

"I don't want him to die, Marty, if that's what you mean. Something's going on here, and if anything's true… What are we supposed to do about it? There's no way we can protect him if Uncle Josiah has someone on the inside." Jim leaned back in the chair, looking somewhere above Marty's head, thinking.

"I'll keep an eye on him and see what I think," Marty offered.

Jim nodded.

"You want me to keep my mouth shut? I mean, it's your case."

Jim laughed. "Yeah, right, Marty. If you think of anything you want to ask, just say it."

"You sure? I'm not Karen…"

"Yeah. I know. And I value your opinion, skewed as it may be. We're on the same team, and any insight, I appreciate it."


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

Marty leaned against the wall, waiting. He thought he must feel the same way Jim had, those thirty seconds waiting on the curb for him to show with the car. Thirty seconds when nothing was happening, before all hell was going to break loose. The calm before the storm—some people might relish it, but to people like Marty and Jim, this was the hell. What was to come, maybe they could control it, figure it out, solve the case, save some lives. But until something happened, they were helpless.

Jim was sitting at the table, chewing on the corner of his bottom lip, obviously thinking. Marty envied him for a second, knowing Jim would have something to say by the time Michael got in there. He'd get the ball rolling and he'd take it as far as he could.

And Marty, though he often couldn't control his mouth and what came out of it, he didn't have the faintest idea what to say to the kid. If Michael'd really just been threatened, that was tough; he'd killed people himself and confessed to the crimes. Did he deserve mercy? Marty wanted to ask him that, but he knew that wasn't the best way to go about questioning him, not if they wanted answers.

Then again, Jim had already tried the relax-and-let-go method. They'd thought it had worked, but if it had, why were they back already talking to this kid?

"Hey, Dunbar, think out loud for once. What do you think, is he telling the truth about anything?"

Jim turned toward the dog, who jumped up to get his ears scratched. Jim was quiet a minute, petting the dog. "I was thinking over what Artez told us when he pin pointed Michael as the one who killed Samantha."

"Do you trust him?"

"I thought so. I mean, he seemed sincere about Michael being Pipsqueak. Like it never occurred to him that Josiah could be a bad guy."

"The only reason we were looking at Josiah in the first place was because Michael was leaving all sorts of clues to point us in that direction, right?"

"I'd bet the guy who jumped off the roof, I bet he was working with Michael."

"Yeah…" Marty leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling since Jim wasn't even attempting eye contact. "Are you sure?"

"I'm not sure of anything, Marty."

"You met this Uncle Josiah guy. Would he kill someone?" He looked down at Jim for a reaction to the question, watching carefully as Jim's facial features remained immoble and he blinked a couple times behind the sunglasses.

The door opened and an officer led Michael in.

"What are you doing here? I told you I didn't have anything to say to you," Michael said, looking over at Jim.

Jim looked closely at Michael as if he could see the kid. "Have a seat. We're getting that priest for you." Jim waited for Michael to comply, sitting across from Jim. The officer left and Jim kept his gaze trained on the boy. "Obviously we can't do anything to help you and you're screwed, so what's it going to hurt to tell us what this is about?"

"It won't do anything for me," Michael said, "but I'd hate to get you involved. If you know too much…"

Jim nodded. "Tell me anyway."

"Won't your wife have something to say about it if you get killed by Uncle Josiah? Or worse, if he takes a liking to you and decides to adopt you?"

"I'll take my chances."

"But will she?"

"If she doesn't like it, she's free to leave," Jim said blandly.

"You wouldn't care?"

"Not if I was already dead or brainwashed, right?"

"You really live on the edge, don't you?"

Jim laughed. "See, Michael, you have a sense of humor. I like that."

"I'm not joking."

"I like that even more."

"Can you find something to hate about me?"

"Tons."

"I'd rather you dwell on the negative."

"Why? Because of what you told us about trying your hardest to do something you'll eventually regret in life?"

"Everyone's always liked me. They shelter me, they're nice to me. It makes me sick."

"Have you managed yet to regret something?"

"If your lady friend gets killed because of me, I think I'd regret that. She's really pretty. I think Uncle Josiah would really like her."

Marty pulled out the chair next to Michael and sat down. He wanted a better view of the kid, up close, in his space. Michael turned, blue eyes rimmed with red, veins standing out. Marty narrowed his eyes as he looked him up and down.

"What do you want?" Michael asked.

"Nothing," Marty said.

"Then you won't be disappointed."

"Ha, ha." Marty set his lips and stared at the kid. "What makes you think Detectives Bettancourt and Dunbar are in danger?"

"Everyone's expendable when they get too close. Me, I thought I was safe, 'cause Josiah likes me, and he doesn't know I've been staging a coup, but here I am. He just sent me a message that I'm next. Which means nothing I did went unnoticed. He knows where I am and what I'm doing and he can get to me." Michael's eyes were wide, his face drawn, paler than before. His eyes darted one way, then the other, up to the ceiling, as if someone was all around, ready to strike, but unseen as of yet.

Marty nodded. "Who's he got in here? Can you tell us that?"

"No one I've recognized. But for all I know, you're his and you're just playing along."

"What was the message?"

"I was sleeping in the cell, my cell, and I heard a voice. It told me to start praying." Michael faked a yawn. His hand went to his mouth, but it was shaking. Marty wondered what the gesture was meant to cover.

Marty was quiet. He glanced up at Dunbar to get his reaction. Jim was chewing on his lip again, rubbing one hand over his chin.

"What sort of voice?" Jim asked after a moment. "Earthly? Human?"

"Duh."

Jim smiled. "That's right, you don't believe in an afterlife."

"Then why ask for a priest?" Marty asked.

"You can never be too careful," Michael said.

"Cover all the bases."

"Precisely. I was raised Catholic. I was baptized. I took communion. I asked for forgiveness of my sins. I'm about to die. So yeah, I'm falling back on old habits, all that stuff that was drummed into me. Just in case there is a god, and just in case his name's not Josiah."

* * *

"You want your last rites?" Father Baker asked. The big man eased himself down into the chair Jim had vacated, across the table from Michael. "Are you ill?"

"Would that I were, Father," Michael said. "Or would that I were insane."

"You could always _plead_ insanity," Marty put in.

"Marty," Jim said quietly, "we're not here, remember?" They were just there to make sure Michael didn't try anything stupid. Other than that, they were supposed to pretend they didn't hear anything Michael said.

"I'm just trying to be helpful," Marty said unhelpfully.

Jim shushed him and turned his back on the kid and the priest.

"Would you like to do confession?" Father Baker asked.

"Not really. I don't think I have that much time."

"Take all the time you need. Perhaps the threat will pass?"

Marty sighed and Jim shot him a look, but he wasn't sure how Marty took it, or if he even saw it, since he couldn't get any feedback if Marty and him weren't allowed to say anything.

Jim knew he wasn't supposed to listen to Michael, and definitely wasn't supposed to take anything into account in terms of the case, but he knew that if Michael said anything of importance, he'd listen.

"My parents liked me," Michael said quietly. "They wouldn't have said anything even if they knew I was helping poison them. That makes me a bad person."

"Are you going to repent?" the priest asked.

"No. Samantha, my girlfriend, she was more than happy to die for me. She even asked me to kill her. So I did." He took a deep breath that Jim could hear from across the room. "Is there a Heaven?"

"You want reassurance?"

"No. I just want to know. Yes or no. Is there a Heaven? Because I know I'm not going there, no matter what. I want to know if it exists."

"Do you admit that what you've done is wrong?"

"No."

"Then how can I help?"

"I want a priest here at the end; is that so wrong? Even for a sinner?"

"If you don't repent—"

"Repenting means I've sinned. And I still don't believe I've done anything really wrong."

"Then why do you say you aren't going to Heaven?"

"Because," Michael said. "Just because. That's something you learn as you go through life. Like when you find out there is no Santa Claus."

"God isn't like Santa Claus."

Michael pushed his chair back and threw himself on his knees. "Oh, dear Lord, I've sinned! How can you forgive me?" he wailed.

The priest snorted disapprovingly.

"Michael, if you're just going to play with us, we're going home and you're going back to your cell, threats or no," Marty said.

Michael stood up. "What makes you think I'm playing? This is the way it works, right? I prostrate myself. I get on my knees. I lower myself before God and his men and I admit I've sinned?"

"It doesn't work if it's just words," Baker said. "You can say the Our Father over and over and have it mean nothing. Or you can say it once and really feel it and live it."

Michael laughed loudly. "Priests. I'd like to see you go up against Josiah."

"Michael, do you have something to say or not?" Jim asked, turning back to them.

"You're not on your death bed, and if someone does come to kill you in the night, I'm sure you deserve it," Father Baker said coldly and pushed his chair back. "Have a good night."

"Hey!" Michael said. "You can't talk to me that way."

"I can't tell a sinner he's doing something wrong? If you want help, I can help. But if all you want is to make a mockery of my religion, you're on your own."

"The Lord isn't going to carry me in my time of need?"

"You? No, not you."

* * *

"You're not even going to talk to Josiah, are you?" Michael asked when Jim stood up to leave.

"What makes you say that?" Jim turned back toward the kid.

"Because you have me. You're done. It's over."

"Actually, I was still going to talk to Josiah."

"Why?"

Jim laughed. "Michael, what are we going to do with you? Why'd you call us back? Why'd you want the priest? You're just playing with us, right?"

"If you leave me alone, that's the end. If there are no witnesses…"

Jim sat back down. "How about this. Detective Russo leaves and it's just me and you. And I'm not much of a witness. So whoever's out to get you won't hesitate to try to take you out, right? Because I can't ID them. But you can let me know who it is and maybe, just maybe, I'll save your life. How's that sound?"

Michael laughed. "I think you're crazy. Because if you did know who it was, they'd just kill you, too."

"Why? Who's out to kill you and why?"

"Because I have all the information to bring down Uncle Josiah. And I almost did. And if they find out that I gave you all the files, they'll definitely be after you anyway. As for who it is, all I know is that they're here. And that's enough to make me scared."

"So you're saying we're all in danger?" Jim leaned forward. "What's he going to do, take out the whole New York police department?"

Marty snickered and plopped down on the table next to Jim. "I like that. I'd definitely like to see him try."

"Don't laugh," Michael said.

"What's his goal? World domination?"

"Basically. Power doesn't end with just a city. He likes to travel."

Marty laughed.

"Marty," Jim reprimanded. "Let the kid talk. Come on, Michael. What's Josiah gonna do? Really?"

"No, he's not going to take out the police department. But those files are important. And incriminating. In order to get them back? I doubt he'd hesitate if someone got in his way."

"You told us earlier he wouldn't kill someone."

"Not himself. But that doesn't mean the people he hires won't have the same qualms, you know? When Josiah wants something done, it gets done."

"He's a pacifist," Marty said.

"Look, I don't know," Michael said. He stood up and pushed his chair into the table hard. "What I know is, he's bad. Bad things happen around him. He makes bad things happen. People die, people become homeless and sick—"

"You said Samantha was the one in charge of finances," Jim said.

"Josiah's not naïve. I know he knew about it. He probably taught her how, so if it came right down to it, she'd be the only one incriminated."

"Okay, so Josiah creates people to take the fall, right?"

"Yeah."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Are you taking the fall for something? So it won't go back to Josiah?"

"I'm in here for killing Samantha and Glenn. I did it. You have my statement."

"So there's nothing in there that's covering for Josiah?"

"No. I killed them to cover for myself. So I could take his place as the next messiah. But if they'd gotten loose, I would have been in way more trouble than I am now."

"So you're grateful," Marty said. "For us arresting you."

"Yeah." Michael moved around the small room. "The only problem is that you can't keep me safe and I don't want you to leave me alone."

There was a knock on the door.

"It's the lieutenant," Marty said.

Jim followed Marty to the door and into the hallway.

"What's up, boss?" Marty said.

"We did a sweep of the people working tonight to see who might have threatened him," Fisk said.

"Anyone?" Jim asked.

Fisk laughed. "It wasn't one of us. It was the prisoner in the cell next to him."

Jim shook his head. "Come on, seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Wouldn't Michael have noticed?"

"He seems pretty scared, Jim," Marty said. "I don't think he's thinking straight."

There was a pounding on the door to the interview room. "Come back!" Michael yelled. "I'll be nice!"

"How long are we going to baby-sit?" Marty said.

"I have a couple guys taking care of the guy in the cell next to Michael's. As soon as we're sure it's safe, we'll leave," Fisk told them.

"Do we know who it was?" Jim asked. "In the cell?"

"It doesn't seem he's related to this case. The guy's claiming he found this note in his cell telling him what to say and he said it. Chances are it was just meant to scare our guy."

"But… the other guy has a record? He was honestly arrested for something by a cop we know?"

"Yeah. Really. He didn't just appear out of nowhere."

"That's a relief."

* * *

"Well, that was fun," Marty said as he slammed the car door.

"Loads," Jim agreed, pulling on the seatbelt. He leaned back and checked his watch.

"What time is it?" Marty asked as he pulled into traffic.

"About three."

"Nice. And we didn't even need to be there. We didn't learn anything new."

"But maybe we saved a life."

"Come on, the guy was in the other cell. What could he have done?"

"I'm not going to underestimate anyone who makes threats in this case."

"He was just trying to scare the kid. It worked. Good for him."

"Marty! Don't you ever do anything just to make someone feel better? Michael feels a lot safer now. He trusts us. If we need him to testify—"

"You think we'll actually be able to pin anything on Josiah Wilkins?"

Jim was quiet. He turned his face toward the side window.

"That's what I thought," Marty said.

Jim sighed and checked his phone for messages.

"Tom called," Marty said. "I told him not to come. He didn't miss anything."

"Karen didn't call…"

"Still? That's not like her."

"I know…" Jim screwed up his face. For some reason he couldn't think of anything but Michael saying he hoped nothing happened to Karen. "You think she's okay?"

"It's Karen. Of course she's okay."

"Yeah…"

"Why?"

"It's just, she didn't call," Jim said. He dialed her number and let it ring until her voice mail came on. "Still nothing."

Marty was quiet a second. "Look, we're only a few miles from her place…"

"Okay," Jim agreed decisively.

"You want to stop?"

"Yeah, I do. She's my partner."

Marty laughed. "I'll sleep better knowing she's okay, too."

Jim nodded.

* * *

Jim laughed as he got out of Marty's car. "Karen's going to kill us if she's sleeping." The air was quiet and almost unnatural. Jim was reminded of the last time he was up this way, checking out the church down the street and meeting Josiah for the first time. Yet he still laughed. The only spook he felt in the air was the coming of Halloween. Other than that, he felt safe. Even if he was alone with Marty. He smiled to himself.

"You wanna leave?"

"No. I just think maybe I should have brought her a pumpkin or something to make up for it."

"I have the one your wife gave me."

"Nah, that's yours." Jim waved off the offer. He turned away from the car, but stopped. "Well, we do have several more at home…"

"I don't even need one."

"We have plenty."

"Just make sure you keep the one with the knife in the head."

"Why?"

"Your wife said it had sentimental value." Marty opened the car door and reached into the back seat.

Jim stared up at the sky, thinking. Christie… Had she changed her mind about the pumpkin? He'd thought she was mad, what he'd done.

"Ready?"

Jim picked up Hank's harness. "Let's go." He followed Marty and waited for Marty to find the right button to call up.

"What?" a female voice asked a moment later.

"We're looking for Karen Bettancourt," Marty said.

"Is there a problem?" the voice asked.

"No problem. My name's Marty Russo. I'm on the squad with her."

Jim heard the buzz of the door as the girl let them up.

"I'm Amy, Karen's roommate," the girl introduced herself. "Karen's sleeping."

"But she's home?" Jim asked.

"Yeah. Why?"

"Here," Marty said, and handed over the jack-o'-lantern. "Happy Halloween."

"Is this a joke?" Amy asked.

"We were just checking in," Jim said.

"Amy?" Karen asked, sounding still half-asleep. "What's going on? Who's buzzing at this hour?"

Amy laughed. "You should ask."

"Jim? Marty?" Karen squeaked. "What are you doing here? I can't—" And she rushed back out of the room.

Jim turned to Marty. "What?"

"Pajamas with little monkeys on them. And really bad hair. Take your pick." Marty laughed. "She didn't look overly thrilled to see us."

"What's going on?" Karen asked a moment later. It sounded like she was pulling on a robe or something.

"You didn't answer your phone," Jim said.

"I—It's around here somewhere… I came home and fell asleep. Is everything okay?"

"We just got back from the precinct. Michael was freaking out."

"Not him, too."

"He seems okay now."

"Everything's okay? Oh, come on in. The living room's this way. Sorry. You want something to drink?"

"You don't have to play hostess, Karen," Marty said.

"They came bearing gifts," Amy said. "But I'm going to bed. 'Night." She walked off.

"Couch is on your right, Jim," Karen said.

Jim reached forward a little and to his right and felt the back of a couch. He followed it around and carefully sat, pulling a soft fleece blanket out from under him. He heard Karen sit to his right and Marty somewhere across the room. They filled her in.

"So what are you doing here?" Karen asked when they were done.

"You didn't answer your phone," Jim said.

"And you got worried?" She laughed. "That's kinda sweet, Jim."

"Karen," he complained.

"It's okay. I know how this case can make you feel." She pulled the blanket over toward her. "Nice pumpkin," she said to change the subject.

"Jim did it," Marty jumped in.

"Really?" She sounded surprised. Karen was quiet a second and Jim could only imagine her scrutinizing the pumpkin even harder than she would have if Marty said he'd done it, or Tom, or some kid. "I didn't know you were artistic," she finally said.

Jim felt himself blushing a little. "I'm not. Christie and I were just messing around."

"You should have seen the one I tried to make a couple years ago. When I moved out I thought I should do up all the holidays, but wow, it was a big mess. I don't even put up a tree anymore. Amy and I just decorate a wreath."

Jim smiled a little.

"You thought I was going to give you a hard time?" Karen asked and pushed him a little playfully in the shoulder. She laughed.

"No—No." Jim shook his head emphatically. "Of course not."

"You should have seen the lovely one he made for his wife. You can just see the love oozing out of it," Marty teased.


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

Jim turned away from the coffee pots to reach for the sugar. He usually didn't use it in coffee, but today he not only needed the extra kick, but the coffee was bad. Whoever had made it didn't know what they were doing, obviously.

He turned back to find himself inches from a body. He almost stumbled as he stepped back. A hand settled on his arm to steady him.

"Sorry," Marty mumbled. He picked up the coffee pot and poured a cup.

"Marty, you have to say something when you walk up." Jim grabbed the counter tightly.

"I'm tired, wasn't thinking. Anyway, I thought you'd hear me."

Jim shook his head. "I didn't. I'm tired, too." He started laughing.

Marty joined in. After a minute he said, "Why are we laughing?"

"Because we need a _lot_ of coffee." Jim took a sip of the doctored beverage and grimaced.

Marty choked on his own drink. "You make this?"

Jim shook his head. "I do know how to make a decent pot of coffee."

"I'm dumping it out."

Jim heard him slide the pot out of the maker and reached out to stop him. "Here." He carefully felt for the opening at the top and lifted the lid to pour his cup out. "You bring the water, I'll make a fresh pot," Jim offered.

"Sounds good," Marty said, halfway out the door.

Jim sifted through the contents of the cupboard and pulled out a coffee can. He found the filters and was searching for the measuring scoop when he heard footsteps coming back. "Where's the scoop?" he asked.

"In the can," Fisk said. "But I already made coffee."

Jim's fingers fumbled over the filters. He heard another set of footsteps pause in the doorway. "Oh, you made the coffee?"

"Yeah. Where is it?"

"Marty and I drank it," he said.

"Yeah," Marty piped up. "We really need the caffeine. What with the late night and all."

"Let me know when you get a new pot brewed," Fisk said and left.

Jim kept his back to Marty until he was sure the boss was out of earshot. Then he turned and gave Marty a horrified look.

Marty burst out laughing. He patted Jim on the arm. "Here's the—" Marty cut himself off and Jim heard something thunk on the counter. "There's the water."

"Boss said you two drank all the coffee he made," Karen said, walking in. "You _drank_ it?"

Jim shook his head. "That's not possible, Karen." He measured out the coffee.

She laughed. "I know. I guess that's the second thing you need to know—bad handwriting, bad coffee."

"Third thing's the charm, what is it?" Jim poured in the water Marty had brought.

"Really bad at karaoke."

Jim grinned. "He sings?"

"He had a few too many at the Christmas party last year. We had to threaten to lock him up as a public disturbance if he didn't stop." Karen turned away. "Bring me a cup when it's ready, okay?"

Jim hoisted himself up on the counter to wait. "Looks like I'm coffee boy today."

"How's your shoulder?" Marty asked.

"Better." Jim tested it to make sure and found it was still only a little sore. "You want me to bring you a cup when it's done?" Jim offered.

"Nah. Maybe I'll hang out a few minutes."

"You and me okay now?"

He pictured Marty shrugging before he said, "You're a tough guy to hate, Jim."

Jim forced a little smile. "Sounds like that's a bad thing."

"I guess I figure, we work together, your personal life is your business, and we can be cordial, even if we're not friends."

"I can handle that."

"But I meant what I said about earning my respect."

Jim nodded. "I can handle that, too. Thanks."

"We'll see," Marty said, but his tone was friendly. "Good luck today."

* * *

"Hey, Jim."

Jim looked up slowly. He wanted to continue to feel good about the case, but with Rob Mulhaney in the room… He felt a sudden depression in the air. The case hit too close to home. He bit his lip. "Rob."

"I just stopped by to get those files…"

Jim nodded. "They're in the lieutenant's office."

"I hear you have a confession."

"Yeah. It wasn't exactly the one I wanted to hear, but we do have one."

"Is Gary in?"

"He ran down to the DA's office." Jim started to get up. "You want me to get you the files?"

"Nah. Nah, I'll just stay around here for a while. Fill me in?"

Jim settled back at his desk and nodded. "Grab a chair." He waited for Rob to pull up a chair from the desk facing his.

"Hey," Tom said, walking up. He stood behind Jim, leaning against the window. "You're going to keep looking into Josiah?"

"It's the only real lead we have," Rob said sadly.

Marty cleared his throat. "Jim's going down there later to talk to him."

Jim nodded. "And I know where he's supposed to be for the next few days."

"What's he like?" Rob asked. "You met him before, right? Gary told me…"

Jim grimaced. "Just how much did he tell you?"

"Not much."

"You won't like him." He shook his head. He didn't want to think of Brian, the young, happy kid he'd met years before, under the influence of Uncle Josiah. He didn't want to think about Rob Mulhaney meeting Josiah and seeing exactly what may have happened to his son.

"Jim?"

Jim pulled his hand away from his mouth and looked back up. He'd have to remember not to think so much.

"You don't want to tell me?"

"I'll tell you," Tom said. "I was there, too."

"Tom." Jim held up his hand to stop him.

"Jimmy," Rob said, "you don't need to protect me. I know Brian was involved with some pretty serious stuff that I can't be proud of. I just want a better impression of what we're up against."

Jim nodded, and together the three detectives laid it out for him, what all they'd learned from Josiah, Michael, and Antoine.

* * *

"I know we have a confession," Jim said as he slowly unclipped his seatbelt, "but when we go in there…"

"Act like he's the guilty party?"

"Yeah. I don't trust him."

"I know."

"I want your best impression."

"Okay."

"I trust you. I want to know what you think. _Exactly_."

"Okay," Karen said, grinning. "All right already, you can stop flattering me. This is my job."

Jim took her arm and stepped up onto the sidewalk. "I don't trust a lot of people."

"Yeah, I know."

"You do?"

"Yeah, Jim." She laughed. "You're not all that hard to read."

"Really?"

"We're gonna go in there, and you're going to take the lead, as usual. But you'll let me introduce us. The whole time you're going to be thinking of whatever the hell happened at the church the last time you were here."

Jim nodded. He could feel the building looming before him, giving him a touch of vertigo.

"And the first thing you're planning to ask is why he killed Samantha, am I right?"

"That's the plan."

* * *

"Have a seat," Uncle Josiah said.

"No thanks," Jim replied. Karen had told him the room was the old church library, but all the shelves were empty. Just a table and chairs, not even a picture. Jim shifted his feet on the old carpet. It felt thick, like old shag.

Josiah laughed almost gleefully. "I guess I wasn't so nice last time we met, was I?"

"This isn't about that."

"No? So tell me, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"I'm surprised you, of all people, would take pleasure in anything."

"But I do. I'm a very happy man."

"I'm sure you are," Karen broke in.

"Your partner wasn't here for my whole sermon, Miss Bettancourt," Josiah said calmly. "He missed a lot."

Jim shook his head. "Like I said before, we're not here about that. We're here about the murder of several of your followers."

"Parishioners, if you please."

"Whatever you call them, why'd you kill them?"

Josiah stood suddenly and Jim braced himself. "Me? I wouldn't kill my parishioners!"

"Then maybe it was at your suggestion?"

"Where is a preacher without someone to listen? Every single one of those people is my lifeblood!"

"So the fact that they're being poisoned by you—"

"Ask them! I would never harm—"

"Right, ask them. After you've turned them into sheep? I'm sure David Koresh's followers thought he was a swell guy, too."

"I did not form a cult, detective," Josiah said, struggling for control in his voice.

"No?"

"No!" He took a few deep breaths. "People come to me in pain—"

"And you make it worse."

"I give them medication to help ease their suffering. Insulin, anti-psychotics—"

"How do you explain the poison? We know you developed one."

There was a short silence. "That," Josiah said, "is not for mass market. I developed it to… help ease them out of this world when their bodies couldn't sustain them any longer." Neither Jim nor Karen said anything, so he clarified. "Euthanasia a term you're familiar with? But trust me, that's a last resort. Comatose patients, ones in pain that will never heal…"

"And it's turning up in your parishioners because…?" Karen prompted.

"It shouldn't be!" He turned and moved away, talking half to himself. "I keep a tight reign on all my medications." He spun back. "I'm here to help people, not kill them."

Jim shook his head. "I'm just not inclined to believe you."

"Why'd you make it untraceable?" Karen asked.

"Euthanasia's not held in high regard in this country. If it came back to me, how would I continue to supply the sick and homeless with medications they desperately need to survive?"

"Tell me, how do you finance this venture?" Jim asked.

"Donations."

"Donations by people who later find themselves homeless? Donations by people who go to their banks and find they never had accounts there?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Is this how you get new parishioners, too?"

"I spend most of my time in my lab, detectives, not recruiting more lost souls. I wouldn't create a lost soul by taking all their finances and leaving them destitute."

"Or by stealing their identities and assigning them to other people?"

"No."

"You have people in charge of all that for you? So you have more time to develop drugs that don't work and poisons that kill people you say you're fond of?"

"Doesn't everyone need to delegate some responsibilities? I have people in charge of my finances, but my drugs work fine! I don't have people _recruiting_—"

Karen stepped forward and flung down her notebook onto the table. "We'll need the names of all your delegates. Because if you're telling the truth, which I doubt, then one of your people has gone on a poisoning spree."

"And we'll need you to come back to the station with us," Jim added.

"What for?"

"We need a statement on what it is you do, exactly," Karen said.

"I help people. You'd see that if you gave me a chance."

* * *

"Jim?" Fisk asked.

Jim looked up and took his hand away from his mouth. He twisted his chair so he was facing the boss.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah. Fine."

"You gonna be ready for the interview when this guy comes in?"

Jim was quiet a second, chewing on his lip. "As much as I want to talk to this guy again… I'd almost rather just watch."

"Let Tom and Marty take over?"

"Yeah. Is that okay?"

"With me it is. You'll have to ask them."

Jim nodded. "I just feel like when I'm talking to him, sometimes I miss an opportunity to ask him something important."

"Okay."

"Thanks."

"Anything else on your mind?"

Jim shook his head. "I wish I believed him. I think the city could use a philanthropist like him. Someone who really could help people where they need it most."

"But you don't believe him?"

"I tried. But no, I don't trust him."

Jim unfolded himself from the chair when the boss left and headed for the snack machines, where he could hear Tom and Marty goofing around.

"Give me the peanut butter ones and you take the breath mints," Tom was saying.

"It's not my fault you hit the wrong button," Marty said.

"You know you can use these, man."

Jim walked around the corner. "What's going on?" he asked with a smile.

"Come on, Jim, tell him he _needs_ these mints. You would know."

Jim shook his head. "I'm not getting in the middle of this." Jim heard a little scuffle that sounded like Tom had lightly pushed Marty backwards.

"You shouldn't have had the garlic for lunch, man," Tom said.

"Let me breathe on you," Marty answered. Jim heard a package of candy being opened.

"Guys…" Jim started.

"Yeah?"

"What is it?" Tom asked, sounding a little concerned.

There was silence and Jim knew he had their undivided attention. "Would you two interview Uncle Josiah when he gets here?"

"What?" Marty asked incredulously.

"Yeah, I thought you wanted his punk ass," Tom said.

"I do."

"Cold feet?" Tom asked.

"No. I just… I have trouble really listening to him when I'm in the same room. The same way Karen felt with Michael, like you forget what you really want to ask and go off on some tangent. We talked to him for thirty minutes this morning and never did get to any specifics."

"I don't want to talk to him," Tom said.

Jim nodded and shrugged. He turned to leave.

"Just joking. I mean, I don't, but I will."

Jim smiled. "Thanks."

"But you better run in and save our sorry butts if he pulls any of his mumbo jumbo. I don't want to end up thinking I'm a French fry and wander aimlessly up and down Broadway looking for a vat of boiling oil to throw myself into, got it?"

* * *

"Well, gosh, I hope I haven't offended anyone," Josiah said insincerely. Jim could hear the smile in his voice as he asked where Detective Dunbar was off to.

"He's busy," Tom said.

"He just waved at the mirror," Karen whispered next to Jim in the observation room.

Jim set his lips. He just wanted to take the cocky bastard down, but he also knew you couldn't put a guy away based on a bad vibe and a couple parlor tricks.

"Let's talk about Samantha Whittleton," Marty said.

"Samantha?" Josiah asked, sounding sad. "What about her? I heard she was shot, but I never did get my hands on the final coroner's report." He sighed. "She was a good kid."

"You want us to arrest you for insurance fraud?" Tom asked.

"Excuse me?"

"On her medical records, you were listed as her husband. The insurance came through you," Marty explained.

"Because I married her. She was my wife."

"A little young for you, wasn't she?"

"She was so sweet. And she was of legal age. I asked her to marry me, she accepted. We were never very close and she left me after a while, about six months ago. As we weren't legally separated, she was still entitled to my insurance, which I happily obliged as she needed the medical care."

"Tell us about your relationship. How you met her, what she did for you. How you found out she died."

"We kept in touch. We were still friends. I met her at church, or after church, to be exact. She was sitting around after the service crying, curled up in the corner on the floor outside the sanctuary. I tried to comfort her. And as you are probably aware, I have my own unique take on the story of God and on our journey here on Earth. It made sense to her, too. After that, it was history. We were inseparable. She wanted to help spread my word." Josiah laughed. "It was really important to her, my new brand of truth."

"She thought she was a prophet?"

"That's putting it a little strongly."

"But she did."

"She would joke about it. About feeling like one of the prophets. And she would chastise me about not taking my message seriously." He stood up and walked a little. "I had other things that I thought were more pressing."

"Don't touch me," Marty said suddenly. "Sit back down."

Josiah laughed. "Relax."

"No. Sit."

A chair was pulled back out and Josiah sat. "Where was I? Oh yes, my other business, which I'm sure you know about. I dabble in medications for my parishioners. I find that I can make my own medications much more cheaply than any pharmacist and they work just as well. It's my own blessing."

"What about this poison?" Tom asked.

"What poison?" Josiah asked.

"The untraceable one."

Josiah laughed. "That's not even possible. Untraceable? There's always a trace of something left in the bloodstream, don't you know that?"

"What we know is that you have been making this substance that's _almost_ untraceable, but yeah, it leaves a little something behind."

"I wouldn't kill anyone. What would I have to gain from that?"

"You tell us."

Jim kept his back to the mirror and didn't bother turning to Karen. "We should have taken a statement back at the church on that stuff."

"He never would have admitted to anything on paper," Karen said. "We don't have enough to go on."

"Did he admit to making the substance?" Fisk asked.

"Sort of."

Jim leaned his head back against the wall. "Sort of isn't good enough. This is why Walter could never pin anything on him."

"We'll find something," Karen said.

Jim shook his head, staring straight ahead, feeling defeated. Josiah was the ultimate proof that evil men didn't always get punished on earth. The police couldn't touch him, and no god was going to come down and smite him.

* * *

"Do you know someone named Rico Artez?"

"Samantha's little friend? She was staying with him. He had a couple kids, didn't he? Or were they his sister's kids?"

"What do you know about the kids?" Marty asked stiffly.

"Kids are nice to talk to. I get some of my best ideas from them, they're so innocent."

"You don't… experiment on them?"

"No! Of course not! Kids are healthy, why change that?"

"So you don't know anything about why Artez and his sister might have been in danger?" Tom asked.

"In danger of what?"

"Of ending up like Glenn Bartlett and Samantha Whittleton?"

"Glenn?"

"You don't know anyone named Glenn?"

"No… Not everyone comes to me using their given names, but no, I don't think I know anyone named Glenn."

"You wouldn't, would you, if he was just Michael Hershach's pal," Marty said.

"Oh," Josiah said, like he finally understood. "This is about Michael!"

"Your little friend told us all about you," Tom said. "And don't go telling us he's delusional."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"Tell us about Michael."

"He hasn't been the same since his parents died. I was a friend and mentor to him, but you know, you can only do so much."

"When you killed his parents, I'd guess he'd have nowhere else to turn?"

"He told you this is revenge for killing his parents? Did you know they died naturally? They were both very sick and it's sad when something like that happens, when they died so close together, but there's no way I could have had anything to do with that. I didn't know he was blaming me for their deaths, though."

"You had nothing to do with it?" Tom asked.

"How do you give a man a heart attack?"

"You would know. They can be medically induced."

"And cancer? Can I cause cancer?"

Tom and Marty were both quiet.

"Look, I would be glad to testify, if you need me to. About Michael."

"On his behalf or against him?"

"I would only tell the truth. It's up to the jury to decide how to take it, isn't it?"

"As far as you know," Marty said, "what's Michael been up to?"

"As far as I know, he's been selling my medications on the street."

"Has he killed anyone?"

"Michael? He's not the type."

"No?"

"No."

Karen lightly touched Jim's arm. "He's lying."

"You sure?"

"From back here, I'm pretty sure I can read him."

Jim nodded. It would complicate Josiah's life if he told the truth about Michael. He could be booked as an accessory to murder if he said the wrong thing, if he admitted to knowing how Samantha died. The less he admitted about Michael, the better, the less he'd implicate himself.

"That's odd," Marty said, "because he told us he killed Samantha."

"Michael? I wouldn't believe it."

"Why? Do you know something we don't know?" Tom asked.

"Well, I haven't talked to him. If he confessed, I'd guess he did it."

"How do you think Samantha died? If Michael didn't kill her?"

"I thought it was… one of Michael's friends."

"Did you know she was seeing Michael? Romantically?"

"Samantha wasn't the romantic type. But yes, I knew they were involved."

"And you think one of Michael's friends killed her?"

"Yes, I thought it was the one with brown hair, always walked around barefoot." Josiah went on to describe Glenn's physique.

Marty left the room momentarily. "Don't say anything important while I'm gone."

"He has a Polaroid," Karen said quietly when Marty returned.

"Is this the kid you're thinking of?" Marty asked.

"Yes."

"That's Glenn Bartlett. What did you know about him?"

"I only ever saw him. I never talked to him."

"He died before Samantha did. Now who do you think killed Samantha, if not Michael or Glenn?"

"I wouldn't know."

"Why are you so calm? If she was your wife? And knowing we have a confession from a friend of yours?" Tom asked.

"She's been dead a while. I don't need to break down and sob hysterically, do I? Wouldn't that be false grief? I don't know who killed her, but like I said before, Samantha and I weren't really connected on that emotional level. She wasn't built that way."

"If Michael's your friend, think really hard about who might have killed Samantha. Otherwise he's going to jail for her murder."

"I feel bad for him," Josiah said blandly.

* * *

"Damn," Fisk said. They'd talked to Josiah for over an hour with no results. Josiah was too smart to implicate himself, even if he had given orders to Michael to do certain things.

"Well, good-bye Josiah," Tom said to no one in particular. "I almost feel sorry for Michael."

"Are you sure you didn't want a crack at him?" Marty asked Jim.

Jim shook his head and settled back into his seat.

"I feel kinda let down," Karen said. "He was so… normal. I didn't get the same creepy vibe here as I did at the church."

"He's a showman," Jim said. "And he's very good at what he does. All we can do is keep an eye out and hope he slips up."

"How's Michael?" Karen asked.

"Still alive," Fisk said. "We're being extra careful about who sees him and why. We're tightening security all around and making sure there's no way any of this business with that Schmidt guy could happen again."

"Let's go talk to Michael," Karen said.

* * *

"Guess who we just talked to," Karen said.

"I don't know," Michael said with mock excitement. "Who?"

"Uncle Josiah."

"Oh goody!" he said sarcastically.

Jim pulled out a chair and sat across the table. "You know what he told us?"

"That he's taking over for Saint Nick?"

"That he doesn't believe you killed Samantha."

The room was silent. Jim couldn't even hear Michael shrug or shake his head. He waited, knowing Karen would clue him into any non-verbal communication he'd be missing.

"What reason did he give?"

"He thought it was your friend, Glenn Bartlett," Karen said.

"I told you, I shot her. Josiah was there. He gave her the poison."

"Then why'd he say he thought Glenn killed her?"

Michael sniffled. "Because he can't get to me in here. He tried and he failed and he doesn't have anyone else in here. I'm safe and he wants me dead."

"And you wouldn't confess to a murder you didn't commit just to get away from Josiah?" Karen asked.

"If Josiah suddenly finds an alibi for me and sends it over, don't believe him. I'm sure he'd love to get me off the hook for her murder so he can take care of me himself. But remember, I killed Glenn, too."

* * *

Fisk sent them home early. Jim walked down with Karen.

"Well," she said.

"I wanted Uncle Josiah," Jim said.

"I know. I did, too."

They'd already looked into his alibi for the day Samantha was murdered. Of course he had an alibi. He probably had an appointment calendar full of them.

"It's early," she said. "You going home? You want a lift?"

"I think I'll walk a while, clear my head. Thanks, though." He waved and headed off down the sidewalk.

"Jim," Karen called.

He turned back.

"If you need to talk to anyone…"

"Thanks," he said and shook his head. "I was just sort of disappointed. After all I went through…" He heard Karen walk back toward him. "It pisses me off that one minute he can make me feel like that, then the next he can pretend he never did anything wrong."

"I wish I'd been there," she said.

Jim smiled and she squeezed his arm.

"Good-night," she said.

Jim felt a little better as he walked off. Karen would have been there for him, if she could. That's exactly what a partner was for.


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter Thirty—Respite **

Jim followed Gray's directions until he heard his name.

"Hey, Jim!" Fos said.

"Hey, guys," he replied.

"Bobby joined us today," Cal said.

"Oh yeah? Hey, Bobby, good to see you."

"There's a chair just to your right," Fos said.

Jim pulled out the chair. Cal was directly to his right, Fos across the table, facing the rest of the bar, which was why he saw Jim first. He heard a small laugh to his left.

"Yeah. Right. You making bad blind jokes?" Bobby asked from his left.

Jim barely recognized the voice. Bobby was the one they always talked _about_ because he usually couldn't show up for some reason or other. "Someone has to," Jim said, throwing a grin in that direction. He left his sunglasses on around the guys for the first time, hoping it would cut down on the likelihood any of them would notice the light remnant of his black eye.

"Let me," Bobby offered. Jim heard him set down a glass and slide his chair back a little, cracking his knuckles like he always did when getting ready for a marathon of jokes. "Blind guy walks into a bar. His guide dog laughs and says, "Look out.""

Jim chuckled. "You're right, that was bad." He heard a couple others chuckle with him. It sounded like Steve was there, too, maybe just past Cal.

"I got one," Fos said. "How many blind guys does it take to screw in a light bulb?"

"What's a blind guy doing with a light bulb?" Bobby replied.

"It was just a hypothetical question," Fos defended.

"How did Stevie Wonder meet his wife?"

Fos asked, "How?"

"On a blind date."

Fos said, "Hey, Jim, you know, you shouldn't go sky diving."

"Why not?" Jim obliged.

"It'll scare the hell out of your dog."

"What would you call your dog if he was blind?" Bobby asked. "A non-seeing eye dog."

"I got one," Fos said. "This lady comes home to find the place ransacked. She calls the cops and they send over a K-9 unit. The cop runs up to the door with the dog and the lady runs out, waving her hands and bemoaning her lot in life. She says, "Not only did I lose everything I own, not only is my house completely trashed, but they send a blind cop to help me!""

Jim smiled. "They say that to me every day."

Steve ordered a round of shots for everyone while Fos and Bobby kept tossing jokes back and forth. When the two of them were together, they'd often pick a subject and go all night making jokes.

"So this blind guy gets arrested for stumbling out of a bar," Bobby said after he took the shot. "The police officer drags him back into the bar and he's going to cite the bartender for not cutting him off. "This guy's blind drunk!" he said. "Nah," the bartender replies, "he only had one beer; he's just blind." "Yeah," the blind guy says, "I'll be able to see a lot better if you buy me another beer.""

Fos cleared his throat. "Blind guy walks into a brothel. A police officer follows him and tries to arrest him, but the blind guy protests, "But officer, I live here!" "You can't live here, it's a brothel," the cop says. "Really? If only I'd known sooner," the blind guy says sadly."

"Hey, Jim, you know when you walk into a brothel?" Cal asked.

"Yeah, I think I'd notice."

"Fos knows he's walked into a brothel when the girls are actually being nice to him."

"Ha, ha, guys," Fos said. "The cop looks around at all the gorgeous ladies. "You really live here?" he asks. "Yeah." "Introduce me." The officer starts making out with every available prostitute—"

"That's against regulations," Jim informed him.

"The blind guy says, "This is my Uncle Frank, and this is my brother Winston…" The officer pulls back, horrified to think he's been making out with a drag queen. "These are men?" he asks. "Yeah. This is guy's poker night." "These aren't women?" the officer asks, hardly able to believe it. "No. Trust me. I'm blind, not stupid." The officer makes a hasty exit, leaving the blind guy alone with seven voluptuous, _female_ prostitutes."

"I should try that one," Bobby said loudly.

"When's the last time you walked into a brothel?" Jim asked. "And when's the last time a police officer cared that you did?"

"I'm just sayin'…" He trailed off.

"This girl's waiting for her blind date," Fos said. "The guy shows up early and she's not dressed yet, but she figures, he's blind, what the hell, he'll never notice she's completely nude, right?"

Bobby groaned. "Nah, we already did a blind date joke."

While the guys argued, Jim found himself facing down a new picture in his head. He'd never thought of it before, walking up to someone's house to interview them, if Karen wasn't with him, would he notice if they were less than clothed? Or if it was a drag queen with a very effeminate voice? He knew these were very bizarre circumstances he wasn't likely to run into, but on a smaller scale, would he notice? He knew he missed a lot, even now, sitting across from these guys, he knew he was missing a lot of non-verbal communication. And like the other day in the squad, when he'd made faces at Marty about the coffee, he didn't know how Marty reacted.

"But the guy's not blind," Fos protested and kept going. "The girl screams and hits him in the face with a fireplace poker, gouging out both his eyes. "I thought this was a blind date!" she screams. "I am now," the guy says."

Jim shook off the feeling. He'd known before he went back to work that he was going to need to rely on his partner for certain things, like describing the layout of a place, and for catching those non-verbal cues, such as when Karen was sure Uncle Josiah was lying to them. She seemed to be paying more attention to the visual now than she had when they were first partnered up. And as for missing facial expressions, Jim had to admit he thought he picked up a lot more subtle nuances in peoples' voices nowadays. He'd just have to go with it, trust his instincts.

"No," Bobby said, "that one doesn't count, 'cause we already did a blind date one."

"But it wasn't the same punch line!"

Jim chuckled at the guys. It was an old fight, one they would never get over.

"That doesn't matter."

Jim turned to Cal with a small grin and said, "Just how many rounds did I miss?"

Fos and Bobby were laughing as they argued. Foster leaned over and said, "Come on, Jim, there's not a lot of blind people jokes."

"Blind guy goes into a store," Bobby said, "takes his dog at the end of the leash and swings him in circles overhead. The manager comes running out, yelling, "What are you doing?" The blind guy says, "Just looking around.""

"Blind guy's telling his friends how he goes parachuting—"

"You already did a sky diving one," Bobby said.

"Bobby, this is a hard subject," Fos argued. "Let it slide."

"We can't change the rules."

"Sure we can. Blind guy tells them—"

"Foster, I'm not buying you a beer if you get the last joke."

"Why not? That'll just mean I'm up two jokes that didn't count. Plus leaving you at a loss, how's that wrong?"

"Blind guy gets into a car. He's backing up and runs down an old lady. He gets out and says, "Oops, didn't see you there.""

"Guys," Fos asked, "don't you want to hear the punch line?"

"No," Steve said.

"He's gonna pout all night if he doesn't get to say it," Cal told him. "Go for it, Foster."

"Blind guy tells his friends how he straps on the parachute, takes his dog by the leash, and jumps. He can smell the trees three hundred feet up—"

"You do that, Jim? Can you smell trees three hundred feet away?" Bobby interrupted.

"I've never gone skydiving, Bobby. But no, I don't have any super senses."

"And his friends say, "But, dude, how do you know right before you hit the ground?" And he says, "The leash goes slack.""

Jim groaned. "I don't think Hank needs to hear any of this."

"Feel free to join in, guys. We don't have to be tasteless on our own, you know," Bobby said.

Jim grinned and turned to Cal. "We need to get these guys a new hobby."

"This blind guy's standing next to a vending machine at Niagara Falls," Bobby said. "He puts in a quarter and pushes a button and out pops a soda. He keeps doing it over and over until a small crowd forms. He cheers every time a can drops. "What are you doing?" one of the people in the crowd asks. The blind guy replies, "I'm winning! Isn't Vegas great?""

Jim groaned. "Isn't that a blond joke?" He grinned at Cal. "They're trying too hard."

"You must have some great blind jokes, Jim," Bobby said. "Come on."

Jim rolled his eyes.

"D'you walk into a door?" Cal asked.

Foster snickered. Jim felt his smile faltering a little. Everyone at the table was quiet, waiting.

"What's the punch line?" Bobby asked after a second.

"There's no punch line," Cal said. "Did you? Look at him. You got a big cut on your face…"

Jim could feel the guys leaning forward to get a closer look. He shook his head and pulled off his sunglasses, setting them next to his beer. "No door."

"Fall down the stairs?"

"I got into it a little at work, that's all."

"Everyone stand back—it's time for a big Jim Dunbar story!" Bobby announced.

Jim forced a smile. "I'm not here to monopolize the conversation. You guys go ahead and talk."

They were quiet a second. Steve finally said, "No, it's okay, go ahead."

Jim leaned over his beer. "I'm not much of a storyteller anymore."

"You lost your tongue, too?" Fos asked.

"So you did always lie to us," Cal said.

Jim glanced his way. "No, I told you I didn't."

"Then what? I get it," he said suddenly. "The perp got the better of you. You're embarrassed."

Jim laughed. "That's not it, either." He couldn't explain it, but sometimes he just had trouble talking to people. Before, he'd loved to tell a story, the longer the better, because he could watch as the guys reacted. He'd liked being the center of attention then. "I roughed him up, too."

"That's it?"

"That's it. We went to check out a warehouse and this guy ambushed me."

"From behind?"

He shook his head. "Walked right up."

"Caught you off-guard?"

He shook his head again. "I knew he was there. He got in the first punch."

"You expect us to believe he punched you once and this is the result?"

"Okay. Okay." He held up his hands in surrender. "I'll try." He took a long drink. "We're investigating this murder—"

"Business as usual," Fos said.

"Right. One murder turns into two. We lose a witness, everything's going wrong. The dead bodies, they were shot, but they were poisoned first, so they didn't actually die from the gunshots."

"Just to be thorough?" Bobby asked.

"Just to screw with us, I think." Jim felt his eyes narrowing as he thought that statement through. No, it couldn't just be to screw with them. If Michael had wanted the police to do a really thorough job investigating, maybe he'd done it to show how effective the poison was. It was just part of the set-up, to make sure the deaths were investigated. The ME had even said, if the gunshots hadn't been there, with the poison pretty much digested, it would have been dismissed. The autopsies never would have revealed anything.

"Jim?"

Jim shook his head. "Sorry, we're pretty much done with the case, but there's a few things still bugging us." He ran a hand through his hair. "We don't know why they were shot and poisoned. Just, we're in the middle of a huge mess."

"Okay."

"We get a call to go check out this warehouse and we all go our separate ways to case the place, right? But we didn't know there were these two guys lurking around waiting for us."

"What'd they look like?" Bobby asked.

Jim paused and blinked, frowned, trying to recall Marty's descriptions.

"You can't ask him that," Fos said quietly.

Jim shrugged. "First guy looked like Ron Howard."

"You're joking, right?" Bobby asked. "The kid from Lassie?"

A groan swept around the table. "He wasn't on Lassie, dope," Fos said. "Try The Andy Griffith Show."

"You beat up Opie?"

Jim laughed pretty loudly, not just at the image of the kid as Opie, but at the scandalized way Bobby asked. "He's like 23, but yeah. Think Happy Days."

"Never saw it."

"_Opie_?" Cal said, laughing. "Who's next, Jim? The Beave?"

Jim smiled at the table while he shook his head.

"Did you ever see the episode when Beaver got into that fight?" Bobby asked.

"Yeah, when he got that black eye?" Steve said.

"Yeah, that one," Bobby said.

"But he got hit by a girl. That doesn't apply."

"You didn't get hit by a girl, right, Jim?" Bobby asked.

Jim shook his head.

"See? He didn't get hit by a girl," Steve said.

"But it was funny," Bobby replied. "Okay, so you got beaten up by Opie," Bobby prompted.

Jim grinned. "Yeah. That's it."

There was a loud groan coming from both sides of him.

Jim shrugged helplessly. "What can I say?"

"That's never "it,"" Cal said.

"How would you know?"

"Because we know you and that's not the end of the story."

"You guys don't want to talk about Beaver anymore?" Jim said hopefully.

"No!" Bobby said. "Come on."

Jim grinned suddenly and turned to Fos. "You'll like this part."

"Me?" Fos asked.

Jim corrected his gaze so he was looking closer at his old friend and nodded. "Yeah, you. This is a good blind joke, not like the ones you were coming up with."

"So shoot."

Jim rolled his eyes. "I can't."

"Right, right, no gun."

Jim nodded, glad Fos had fallen back to their old joke. Fos had always had a habit of telling Jim to shoot with his stories, and Jim would always pull his coat back to reveal his holster, or make a gun with his finger, or do some other cop thing. Now he grinned at Fos and leaned over the table a little, lowering his voice for affect. "He tried to disarm me." Jim leaned back.

It was silent for a second, then Fos started laughing. Steve and Cal quickly joined in.

Jim turned to Bobby when he never started laughing. "I don't have a gun anymore," he explained.

"That's… good," Bobby said awkwardly.

Jim nodded. "Yeah, it is good." He turned back to the group. "This guy spent most of the fight searching me for a gun, which of course, I don't have. And he got all pissy and whiny. "What kind of a cop doesn't carry a gun?"" Jim imitated in a whiny voice.

The guys were laughing. Jim took another drink and laughed with them.

"Great story," Cal said and clapped Jim on the shoulder, using him as a lever to hoist himself out of his chair. "Gotta head home."

Jim grimaced and stretched his shoulder out when Cal let go.

"You okay?" Cal asked.

Jim looked up. "Yeah, no problem."

"So… Jim," Bobby said when Cal had gone. "Nice to have you back."

"Yeah," Jim said.

"This is the most pathetic night of jokes we've ever had, but still…"

Jim laughed. "You need to stick to subjects you know."

"Yeah, right… Like changing diapers is a good subject."

"You have kids, Bobby?"

"I have four of them, Jim, where you been?"

Jim blinked. "Four kids?" He let out a deep breath.

"Yeah, what'd you think I was doing? Hanging out at Club Med when I wasn't around?"

Jim shrugged. "I had no idea. I never thought to ask." He shook his head. "Four kids?"

"You want one?"

Jim laughed. "Definitely not."

"You know, sorry about the blind jokes."

Fos guffawed. "I'm not. He deserves them. He's always giving us heck, it's about time we give it back."

"Jim?" Bobby asked.

He shook his head. "I can take a little teasing, Bobby. Go ahead."

"Who had the last joke?"

"I think Cal did. He was the one with the "Did you walk into a door" line," Foster said.

"Nah, then Jim had the disarming story," Bobby said.

"True life, does that count?"

"Of course it does!"

"Then Jim, you're way behind. One joke, and we both got like what, ten? You gotta catch up."

"Actually, I started off with "it's good to see you, Bobby," which, according to the rules, negates any jokes where the blind guy makes reference to seeing. Such as your joke about the blind guy running over the old lady in his car," Jim said sweetly.

"Oh, sht," Bobby said. "I forgot that one."

"Ha!" Fos celebrated smugly.

Bobby drummed the table with his fingers. "I hate the way your mind works, Jim."

"I'll buy you a beer anyway," Jim said. He pulled out his wallet. "But I'll let one of you guys go get them."

"I'll go," Fos said and took Jim's money. "Whoo hoo, I'm rich!" He let out a maniacal laugh and jumped in the air.

"We're cutting him off after the next round," Steve said.

"Hey, you're still here—I was beginning to wonder," Jim said, looking over at Steve. "He been like that all night?"

"Yeah. New girlfriend."

Jim smiled and shook his head. "It serious?"

"You know Fos…"

"I'm beginning to wonder." He glanced over at Bobby and tossed a nod of the head that way. "I didn't know you had four kids."

Fos leaned up close behind Jim and said, "It's very serious," in a low voice. "She's great. She's a make-up artist. I never come home to the same girl two days in a row." He rested a bottle on Jim's shoulder. "Where do you want this?"

Jim reached up and took it. "Thanks."

"If this one doesn't work out, I think I'll try an actress next. I always stayed away from them, 'cause I thought they'd be moody, but really, she'd be a different person every day. Can't be all bad."

"You should try a schizophrenic," Bobby offered.

"Done that. No thanks."

"When?"

"Last summer. That girl from Barcelona. Two dates, the girl was certifiable. I thought she was her own twin sister at first."

Jim laughed. "I'm sorry I missed that story."

"You didn't miss anything," Steve said. "Really, it makes a better snippet a year later, but living through it…"

"Jim," Fos asked, "is your lady still certifiable?"

Jim grimaced, regretting how much he used to complain about Christie.

"Sorry," Fos apologized before Jim could say anything. "You were just always fighting before."

"Things are better between us."

"'Cause you're home more now? That was her biggest complaint, wasn't it?"

Jim shook his head. Before the affair, he wasn't sure what Christie's biggest complaint with him was. He just remembered it was a little of everything, with both of them, and it started adding up, so they were both miserable. "That's all in the past."

"That's good."

He nodded. "It is."

"'Cause you probably need her now, right?"

Jim was so taken aback by the comment he couldn't react, his mouth half-open to deny it, to set Foster straight. But on the other hand, he did need his wife. Probably just not in the way the guys were thinking. And it surprised him to hear that now, and not his first drink with them on some previous visit. "What do you think she does, point out all the chairs to me? Dress me? Tell me the time?" Jim blinked in the silence. "She's my _wife_, that's why it's good." He took a breath. "Maybe she should have left me, I dunno. But we're there for each other." Since the shooting, they were definitely on more equal footing, but Jim didn't want to analyze that fact.

"This is why I'm divorced," Fos said by way of apology.

"Besides," Steve said, "lots of blind people live on their own, right? So it's not like the only reason his wife stayed was to take care of him."

Jim smiled a little at Steve for getting to the heart of the matter. Even if that was why Christie had initially stayed, that wasn't enough. She was no Florence Nightingale. She wouldn't stay anywhere if it didn't suit her needs. "I can take care of myself," Jim affirmed.

"Yeah," Bobby said, slugging Jim lightly in the arm, "that's why the perp got in the first shot, right?"

Jim grinned. "He didn't get in the last."

"See? That makes me feel better."

"About what?" Steve asked.

"I'll sleep better at night, knowing that if I'm murdered, Jim'll find the guy. And beat the living crap out of him."

"It'll be your wife killing you if you make her pop out any more babies," Fos said.

"Case solved," Jim agreed.

"They'd acquit her," Bobby said.

"You know the best way to get back on her good side?" Fos said.

"No, what?"

"Go home tonight with flowers and a bottle of champagne. Pour her a glass, sit her down, and say, "Honey, I'm pregnant.""

* * *

"You worked this long?" Christie asked.

"Nah. I went out with the guys." Jim hung up his coat, a smile still on his face. Even after spending a couple hours at the bar with the guys, it was still not quite seven. The night was young and he felt free, without the case hanging over his head.

"Tom and Marty?"

"Nope. The old guys. Cal, Foster, Steve… Bobby was there, too. Did you know, he has four kids or something like that."

"I can't say I knew that…"

"I didn't, either." Jim shook his head, still surprised at his ignorance. "I think I need to listen more."

Christie laughed. "I've been telling you that for years."

Jim wrapped his arm around his wife, feeling a soft sweater under his fingers, but it was small and clung to her, not one of those bulky winter sweaters that made him think of polar bears.

"Cashmere," she said seductively.

"Case is over," he said. "Next case goes straight to Marty, so I'm free all night."

"I'd love to stay, but I have a meeting in Times Square."

Jim let her slip from his arms, his mouth open as he followed her dumbly.

"You wanna come?"

"What sort of meeting?" Jim sat on the bed.

Christie handed Jim a shirt and he heard her rifling through the dresser. "I was going to walk up and down the streets with my husband, look at the moon, look at all the kids dressed up… Maybe head down to Central Park for a stroll. Does any of that interest you?"

Jim pulled the sweater over his head, mumbling into the fabric. "It's Halloween."

"Yes, darling. You grown-ups just forget all about the fun holidays, don't you?"

He pulled the shirt down. He'd been so busy thinking about Josiah Wilkins all day that, if anyone had said something about the holiday, he'd totally missed it. "I forgot."

"Well?"

"Sounds good." He slipped out of his work shoes. "Uh, can Hank come, or is this just the two of us?"

"Hank can come… He's almost one of the family."

* * *

Jim felt relaxed the next day when he got to work. There wasn't a lot on the plate, Halloween candy was being passed around, and everyone's spirits were up. As good as he felt, he still had a niggling feeling in the pit of his stomach. The case hadn't ended right and it was probably going to bug him, just like the case with Warren Doyle still bugged him. If they'd nailed him the first time…

"If you could arrest one person, who'd it be?" Tom asked, passing the time.

"Josiah Wilkins," Jim said without missing a beat.

"Why? He didn't do nothin'."

Jim stayed quiet. It was nothing they could pin on him, but the way the man had sucked out all the hope from that room, the way he'd had power over people. Jim had to admit, having that guy on the street worried him. He wasn't glad the murders had been perpetrated by someone else. If Samantha and Glenn Bartlett hadn't been mixed up with Josiah, they'd still be alive. Artez and DeLana would have homes and insurance, happy children. "The world would be a better place without people like Uncle Josiah."

"The world would be a better place without blind people bumping into me," Karen grumbled.

"When did I—"

"It wasn't you, Jim. Some guy at the bar last night. Bumped into me, felt me up, said, "Oh, forgive me, I'm blind, could you help me find a chair?""

Jim snickered. "Are you sure he was blind?"

"Yeah," Marty concurred. "Picking out the hottest chick in the bar to run into like that?"

"Trust me, Karen, blind people aren't that lucky. When I run into people, it's usually a guy, and usually he has terrible breath. And something sticky coating his skin."

"He was kinda smarmy…"

Tom laughed.

"Definitely sighted," Jim said. "You'll never meet a smarmy blind guy."

"The world would be a better place without men in general," Karen said.

"Date didn't go so hot, huh, Karen?" Tom asked.

"Remember when I said women shoot guys all the time?" Karen flopped into her chair. "Women shoot guys _like that_ all the time."

* * *

The day went easily, just filling out last-minute paperwork and tying up a few loose ends. Jim took a phone call from Tamika, thanking him. She said she was having a great time with her grandma and maybe they were going to get a dog just like Hank for Cindy to play with and DeWanda had a boyfriend in pre-school and he put sand in her hair the other day and Tamika had her first pair of brand new shoes in forever and was going to start school herself next week.

"Makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside, huh?" Marty said when Jim hung up.

Jim just laughed at the snarky comment. "Yeah, Marty," he said with a goofy grin, "it does."

The air in the office was more relaxed than it had been in a long time. "I'm starving," Karen said later, "you all still wanna go out and celebrate?"

"I think we deserve it," Jim said.

"Then let's take lunch and get out of here."

"The walls are closing in you, huh, Karen?" Marty asked. "You'd never survive in prison."

Hank sat up and Jim scratched his ears.

Fisk opened his door. "What are you all doing here?"

"Absolutely nothing," Tom answered. "And loving every minute of it."

"Get out of here. If anything jumps, I'll let you know." He closed the door again.

Jim stood. "Don't have to tell me twice."

They all hurried around, cleaning up, closing down, getting coats. Jim took Hank by the leash and led him to the elevator for once.

"Where are we going?" Marty asked.

"Food. Hot food," Karen said.

"Pizza?" Jim suggested. He just wanted to relax, not to worry about forks and menus and separate meals.

"Actually," Karen said, "I really wanted to try that new Mongolian restaurant where they cook your food at the table and flip pieces straight into your mouth."

Jim thought it over briefly—he thought it sounded unnerving, but maybe they'd all be so enthralled with the performance they wouldn't pay attention to him—unless the chef didn't notice he was blind and tried flipping food at him. That would be a mess. But he shrugged nonchalantly. "Okay."

Karen laughed. "I was joking."

"Even I knew that," Tom said.

"Only because I winked at you."

"Oh, that was a wink?" Tom asked, trying to play dumb.

"Pizza's fine," Karen said.

"What happened to the Jim Dunbar resolution to relax?" Tom asked.

"It's not New Year's yet." Jim took Hank's harness and followed the dog off the elevator.

"Jim!" Tom followed him closely.

"I'm joking," Jim tossed back at him.

"I can't trust any of you," Tom mumbled.

"It's about time you learned that," Marty said.

* * *

Jim settled onto the vinyl chair. The place was filled with smoke, but the guys all assured him it was some of the best pizza around.

"What do you think of our 'hood, Jim?" Tom asked. "Now that you've been here a while?"

"Nice and quiet," Jim said. "I'm beginning to think if I want an interesting case, I'll have to go out and kill someone myself."

"Ha, ha. I know you're joking this time."

Jim pulled his sunglasses off and set them next to his glass of water. He looked at Tom straight across the table without blinking, completely serious. "Are you sure?" he asked.

"Yeah, Jim. I know you're not moonlighting as some serial killer."

"Great occupation for a homicide detective, though. Especially now that I'm connected with Uncle Josiah. We could hook up and you'd never figure it out."

"Yeah, Jim, you'd be a scary mother if you turned to the dark side," Tom said sarcastically. "You and your infinite knowledge of creepy ways to kill people. I still don't know how you figure some of this stuff out."

Jim tapped the side of his head. "Logic."

"There's nothing logical about killing someone," Karen said. She was sitting on his right and it sounded like she was playing with a paper napkin full of silverware. Jim had curbed his natural instinct to scope out his side of the table, but he guessed each of them would have one.

Jim glanced at her with a smile. "Tell us all about your date last night, Karen."

"No thanks."

"But you know how frustrated you felt last night. You know how angry these guys made you. Couldn't you reason it out and kill one of them?"

"You're not getting me to go for that."

"I'll bite," Marty said. "101 ways to kill someone."

"No way, that one gets creepy," Tom said.

"Chicken?" Marty asked.

"I prefer the Who Would You Kill? game."

"Honestly? I'm curious to know how Dunbar would kill someone."

"Honestly, I don't want to know."

Karen snorted. "Honestly, you guys need a new hobby."

Jim grinned and leaned back.

"Every cop's a bit of a criminal, just like every fireman's a little bit of a pyromaniac—" Marty said.

"Marty, you need to get over the fireman thing," Karen said.

"If we weren't, how would we know what the criminals are going to do?" Marty asked, ignoring Karen. "I think, if we gotta work with the guy, we'd better know how his little mind works. When he snaps, what's going to happen?" Marty said.

Jim looked over at Marty on his left. "When my little mind snaps, you'll be the first to know," he said, then grinned.

"Likewise, Dunbar," Marty shot over.

"Aww," Tom gushed, "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship." There was a second of silence and Jim could only imagine some dirty look being exchanged that made Tom say, "What? Nikki's had me watching all sorts of ancient movies."

"The ancients didn't have movies," Karen corrected. "They're called classics."

"Yeah, Tom, I thought you were well-rounded," Jim said.

"Careful, this is hot," the waitress said.

Jim felt her lean up against the table, brushing past his shoulder. He heard Marty move a couple things, and Karen help, too. Then something heavy landed on the table, the smell of melted cheese and sausage and tomato wafting up. Jim inhaled deeply.

"Enjoy," she said, sounding bored.

"Here's a plate," Karen said, setting something in front of Jim.

Jim reached out for it, but she snatched it back. "I don't get to eat?"

"I figure I'll get the first couple pieces out. I know how big of a baby guys are when they burn themselves on pizza."

Jim didn't argue. He heard her slicing pizza with the spatula, then the plate hit the table in front of him again.

"Blow on it before you take a bite, okay?" she said.

Jim smiled.

She served another piece. "Here you go, Marty, don't hurt yourself, it's only pizza."

"Black guy's always last," Tom grumbled.

"I haven't served myself, Tom, but if you want, I'll keep this next piece all to myself and let you serve yourself." She pulled up another piece of pizza. "Here."

"Thanks, Mom," Tom said.

Jim gingerly picked up the piece in front of him and took a bite. He dropped it back on the plate, trying to breathe evenly. "Hot," he mumbled, feeling tears in his eyes.

"What'd I tell you?" Karen laughed.

Jim reached for his water, but found his hand hovering in midair.

"Here," Marty said, lifting something and tapping it back onto the table. "I had to move it."

"Thanks." Jim grabbed the glass and took a long drink.

"I guess that's the sort of thing we need to tell you, right?" It sounded like Marty was talking to his plate, refusing to look at Jim.

Jim swallowed. "Yeah, it helps."

"How'd you get used to—" Tom cut himself off and cleared his throat.

Jim looked up at Tom. He knew what Tom didn't think he could ask, and he wasn't about to force him to finish. "You can get used to a lot of things. Even working with someone like Marty." He jerked his head in Marty's direction.

Tom snickered.

Jim picked the pizza back up and blew on it. He wasn't going to let one little slip like not noticing Marty move his glass get to him, not today. He was just going to relax and go with it, like he'd decided a while ago. They'd really get along better as a squad if he gave up the "bull in a china shop" attitude Karen had one accused him of having, and if he let them know he wasn't infallible. He glanced over at Karen. "See, Karen, I'm taking your advice this time." He blew on the pizza again.

"Good boy," she gushed.

Hank put his head up, Jim could tell because his dog collar jingled, then he could feel the head at his knee. Jim motioned for him to lie back down. "Better watch what you say, Karen."

They chewed in silence for a few minutes before falling back into easy chatter.


	31. Deleted Scenes

**DELETED SCENES**

_Sometimes a scene just plain doesn't work. Other times you just have to go in a different direction by the time you get to that point of the story. The perils of not writing in order. I put them here just because I think I have a couple nice moments, even if they have no bearing on the story._

* * *

_(This scene would have taken the place of Christie Snaps Jim Out of His Funk after the scene at the church when he met Uncle J the first time. Chapter 15. I'd been watching a little too much Smallville that week.)_

Christie looked up when the front door opened.

"Jimmy?"

He didn't answer.

"The lieutenant called me at work. He said you weren't feeling well."

Jim dropped his keys and his sunglasses on the table by the door, but didn't answer.

Christie watched him closely. She'd asked the lieutenant what was wrong, but he said he couldn't say, didn't know, just that an interview had gone awry and Jim didn't seem like himself.

Hank followed Jim and whined. He still had his harness on.

"Hank," Christie called.

He padded over and looked up at Christie, giving her his best puppy dog look, hoping she'd help him and help Jim, whatever was wrong.

"I wish you could talk," Christie whispered. She cautiously leaned over and unhooked the harness.

Hank licked her hand, thinking, "Thanks, but you don't want to know what I'd say."

Jim sat on the sofa and leaned back into the (red?) leather. He looked like he was fighting himself mentally, mostly blank, but occasionally his brow would furrow or he'd frown and slowly shake his head. He got up and went to the window, staring out at the city.

Christie cautiously went over to him and put a hand on his arm. "They said you'd gotten back from an interview. Did you learn anything?"

Jim shook her hand off and turned toward her, his blue eyes narrowed. "Yeah, I learned my life is too ordered. We're stuck in a rut, Christie."

"Jim…"

He grabbed her and kissed her hard, like he hadn't seen her in years and would never get to kiss her again. He pulled back, breathing hard and gently ran a finger down the side of her face as he stared intently at her. "I don't know how I feel about you anymore. We haven't been getting along that great, but I wanted you to know. I may not always like you, but I do love you." He ran his hands through her hair. "I love your hair. I love your smile." His fingers played over her mouth. "Come on, Christie, smile." He sighed and tried kissing her again.

Christie gasped as she stared at him. "Jimmy—"

"Well? You used to love me. Do you still?"

"Yes."

"Stop trying to manipulate me and we'll get along great. Come on." He took her hand. "Let's go out." He tugged her toward the door.

"I need to get my purse." She pulled her hand away and watched him walk toward the door as unerringly as always.

"Don't be too long." He grabbed his keys, but left his cane and sunglasses on the table, didn't grab his coat.

"It's cold out!" she called as he swung the door open.

He reached for the coat rack and grabbed his black leather coat, then disappeared into the hallway.

Christie ran for the bedroom for her purse. She didn't want to lose him. Hank was waiting at the front door as Christie searched the pockets of his overcoat for his phone.

Hank whined. If he's not blind anymore, shouldn't you tell me? he tried to ask.

"Hank, stay," Christie said. She gave an extra glance at the dog, wondering for a second if she should bring him along, then ran out the door. If Hank had been able to help, he would have done so before Jim got home.

Jim as already on the sidewalk out front before Christie caught him. He was looking up and down the street, turning his head first one way, then the other. He turned, probably hearing her footsteps. "I thought you forgot about me," he said with a grin. "Let's get a cab and go spend the evening in the Park." He raised his hand as a car passed.

Christie looked out at the street. It wasn't a cab. Part of her was thankful. She didn't want Jim outside the apartment, not like this.

He sighed as the car drove past. "Let's walk. We'll catch a cab later." He headed off down the sidewalk.

Christie ran and caught his hand. She tried to put it on her arm to guide him, but he kept sliding his hand down into hers. Resigned, she figured it was better than nothing.

Jim leaned down to whisper in her ear, "You don't want people to think you're out with a blind guy, do you?"

Christie turned her head away, as if he'd be able to see the tears in her eyes.

"Let's go in here." Jim stopped suddenly.

"We can't. It's an apartment building."

"Then let's find a cab."

"There's a restaurant across the street."

She needed to get him settled somewhere, call Karen, or maybe Dr. Galloway. She needed to find out what had happened. Maybe he had a head injury and needed medical attention. She could only hope.

Jim immediately started to cross the street without checking for traffic. Christie pulled his hand back too suddenly, reeled him in as he stumbled.

"Don't do that," he said viciously. But this time he went through the motions of looking up and down the street.

"It's clear," Christie finally said. She took a step forward with him. "Curb." The stepped down and went halfway across the street, then she stopped him to wait for the other way to clear.

"You're nervous," Jim said, lifting her hand to his lips.

"Come on," she said. They crossed the rest of the lanes. "Curb."

"Don't do that. I don't need that," he said with a sigh.

"If you'd hold my arm properly, you wouldn't need that," Christie said quietly.

"You want to argue here? On the sidewalk for everyone to hear? Go ahead." He put on hand on either side of her face and looked down at her. "Christie, I'm blind. I'm always going to be blind. But I'm not going to let it rule my life."

Christie stood on her tiptoes to give him a quick kiss, then led the way into the restaurant. She sat him down, then excused herself. At the other side of the room, near the restrooms, Christie opened Jim's phone and started scrolling through his address book. She could keep an eye on him while she made a couple calls. A waiter went up and handed him a menu. Jim held it awkwardly a minute, opened it, squinted, leaned closer. He ran his hand over the laminated surface, then set it down. Christie turned back to the phone. She found Karen's number and pressed send, but when she looked up, Jim was gone.

She ran.

He was standing in the middle of the street, listening for traffic. She waited for a truck to pass, then ran after him, just as he made it to the other side, his foot catching the curb and pitching him forward. He rebalanced and stepped onto the sidewalk, then made a ninety degree turn and kept walking.

"Where are you going?" she asked, breathless. She caught his hand, but he shook her off.

"You call this normal?" he asked angrily.

* * *

_(This would have taken place in Chapter Seventeen, right after Clay's visit, right after the very end of the chapter.)_

"Let me help with dinner," he offered.

His cell phone rang before she answered and she pulled away.

"Christie—"

"It's okay, you can help."

The phone rang again. He sighed and crossed over to the table by the front door where he'd left it. "Dunbar."

"Jim," Karen said, "how'd the rest of the day go?"

He groaned. "I forgot to call you back. Sorry. Walter stopped by." He filled her in on what little else they'd learned.

"Where does he get this information?" she asked. "He knows something about everyone." She sounded a little bitter.

"Walter's been around. He knows everyone."

"But still—"

"Karen, next time you have a date, run him by Walter first."

"Thanks, Jim," she said sarcastically. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Definitely. Get some sleep." He turned the phone off so it wouldn't interrupt again. If it was an emergency, they could page him.

"How's Karen?" Christie asked when he walked into the kitchen.

"Feeling better." He leaned against the counter a second, then remembered the visit from Clay. "Did you see the envelope from your editor?"

"Yeah. I'll work on it later tonight."

He nodded and left her, going into the living room for his beer.

"I see you've been busy," she said as he started to clean up the coffee table. "Leave them out. We can work together tonight."

Jim set the books back down. "'Kay."

"You know, while you were in rehab…" she started slowly. He listened as she got out a pan from one of the lower cupboards. "They told me I should write you love notes in Braille. Sort of an incentive for you to learn it."

Jim didn't even have to ask if she'd done it. They'd barely been speaking at that point in time and he'd been too busy learning how to get around to care about how he was going to read. Then he'd immediately started lessons in fighting, gone to get a guide dog…

"Shoot," he said. "I have a class tonight." He checked his watch. "It starts at eight."

"Oh." He heard her put the pan back in the cupboard. "I'll make something quick and you can get out of here."

"Thanks." He cleaned up the books and put them back on the shelves.

"You aren't going to—"

"I don't like leaving things out." He grabbed his beer. "But if you're still up when I come back, I'll read you the exercises, how's that?"

"You're not still working on random letters, are you?"

"I moved up to full words already."

"How long until you can read me a coherent story?"

"Coherent? Maybe never at this rate." He leaned against the counter. "But I'm working on it."

"You want to light the candles? We can have a nice romantic dinner of leftovers."

Jim got out the box of matches, feeling for the wicks of the tapered candles. He lit two of them carefully. "You need to get some scented ones so I can enjoy them, too."

"I thought you didn't like candles."

"Yeah, open flame around a blind guy. Sounds like a good idea to me." He took a drink of his beer and cupped a hand around the flame, feeling the heat. He stared, focusing his eyes, trying to see what he knew to be a concentrated bright light, but there was still nothing. "Blueberry," he said. "You should get blueberry next time."

"I'll see what I can do."

He brought his hand down and touched the cold beer bottle after the warmth of the fire. "Did I tell you I actually didn't get in trouble about yesterday?"

"But you got in trouble for going out to the bar?"

"Strange, huh? But Tom backed me up."

"That was nice."

"I guess Marty and Karen backed me up about the bar thing…" He shook his head. "I still wish Karen had been there yesterday."

"You don't think anything would have happened if she'd been around?"

"I don't know. I trust her. And I was so worried about how I was going to do my job without her. The other detectives, I've never needed them before."

"So now? Are you going to let them in on what makes Jim Dunbar tick?"

"I think I should. It'll be easier on me if they know."

"It'll be easier on them, too."

"What do you mean?" He followed her movements as she went to the microwave.

"I mean, sometimes it's hard to know what you can and can't do. If you let people know, it's more comfortable."

He blinked. "I still don't follow."

"Remember Walter's party? You were okay around me and Karen and Walter, but around the people you work with now, I saw them watching you a couple times, wondering if they should jump in and help."

"Help with what? If I need help, I ask."

"Do you?"

"Yeah."

"Or, if you need help, do you just ask Karen?"

Jim bit his lip as she set a plate in front of him. "I don't want to have to rely on people."

"Oh, Jimmy, not that again."

"Okay, I admit, I lean on Karen more than the guys. But most of the time I don't need help."

"You just told me you trust Karen more than Tom or Marty—"

Jim laughed at the mention of Marty's name. "Yeah, Marty, like I'm going to be opening up to him anytime soon."

"You still don't know what happened between you two?"

He shook his head. "I was actually almost getting to trust him…" He picked up his fork. "I don't know, Christie, maybe I do bring out the worst in some people."

* * *

_(continued, same chapter, next scene)_

He felt good and focused, if mildly bruised, after an hour sparring on the mats. He'd learned a few new techniques, even managed to incorporate one into the fight that night. He'd been able to really concentrate, blocking everything else out. It had been a while since he'd been able to not think of anything but the movement.

He buckled Hank's harness in place and whistled a little tune as he pulled on his coat. It was getting colder outside and it really did smell like Christmas, that biting chill that sometimes precedes a big snow. He hoped it wouldn't snow yet. He'd been out a few times, training mobility in the snow. It was easy to get lost and disoriented: normal sounds muffled, landmarks obscured, snow piled where the day before the route had been clear. He'd have to go through it all with Karen, the sooner the better for warning her, he was sure.

Christie'd been there for a lot of it. She had to learn, too, all the little things about guiding him properly and what to help with and how to make sure he could use everything in the apartment. At the time he'd resented spending time with Christie and the mobility instructor. He hadn't wanted her to be aware of anything—he'd thought he could go through rehab, come home, and fake it. She'd never know the difference.

"Come on, Jimmy, it's snowing." She'd woken him up by shaking him.

"What time is it?" he asked groggily.

He had batted her hand away.

"In the afternoon. It's Saturday."

He'd forgotten he was taking a nap. He'd been so tired after his lessons that morning that, not caring what time it was, he'd gotten undressed and climbed into bed. He'd braved New York alone, cane in hand. The instructor had given him places to meet at, told him to use subway or bus, then had left him to his own devices.

New York was loud. It was big. He could feel buildings towering over him. He could feel people brushing past. He could smell everything. Unclean people, dead fish. He'd noticed a hint of snow in the air, but he'd ignored it.

Christie wanted to go out.

He shook his head. "I haven't done snow yet."

"Then now's as good a time as any."

He sat up slowly and she caught his hand. "No thanks."

"You'll have to do it eventually."

"Yeah. Eventually. Not today."

"Jimmy."

"Not today! I've been warned about snow. I'm not going out the first time with you. You don't have any idea, Christie."

"Then when?"

"I have more O&M tomorrow. Probably then."

* * *

_(The cheesy ending, followed by the cold ending. Christie's a hard girl to pin down, depending on her mood. These were possibilities if Chapter 29 was The End, right after Jim got home that night. I rearranged a bit when I finally got there, though, so I didn't end with Christie. I decided I wanted a more happy ending.)_

The rain was coming down so hard Jim could hear individual drops on the window. He stood next to the windows, leaning against the wall, staring out at the droplets as though he could see each one. A beer in hand, the other hand in his pocket, he felt—

"Is it ever going to get back to normal?" Christie asked.

"What?" Jim asked, caught off guard. He removed his hand from his pocket and slowly turned.

"Us."

Jim stared at her, remembering every feature of her face so clearly he could picture the look she was giving him as she waited. Jim shook his head. "I don't know," he answered, as honest as he could be. He moved over toward the couch—used to swagger, that's what Christie had told him once, years ago. She'd been watching him walk away, so purposeful, and she'd laughed. He knew that now, even in the apartment, he didn't move the same way he used to. You couldn't swagger when you weren't on top of your world any longer, when you felt even an inkling out of control.

He sat and listened as Christie swished toward him, waited until she'd sat, two feet away down the couch. He grimaced. The fight was over, the pretending done, and she just sounded sad. He'd been more honest then than he had in years and thought maybe he owed her some more honesty in a less spiteful situation, no matter what it brought. He stared down toward his beer, twirling the bottle. "I need time," he finally said. "Sometimes, I wake up in the morning and—I can't look at myself in the mirror. I don't know what I'd see because I'm just not there. And sometimes, I'm not sure who I am anymore.

"I know I've had a lot of time, more than I deserve." He looked up at her and smiled. "But sometimes, when I come here after work, I know I'm home. I'm starting to get a sense of who I am _now_. Slowly."

Christie shifted on the couch. "Why didn't you ever tell me before?"

Jim looked away, took a sip of beer, barely ready to admit—"Because I thought it might scare you. It scares me sometimes, to wake up in the morning to nothing, just wondering who I am." Galloway would be proud, Jim finally admitting that fear to his wife. Jim just hoped Christie could appreciate it, that it wouldn't scare her away.

It took her a minute to answer. "Well, then," she said slowly, "I'll be there for you in the mornings when you wake up. And you can come home to me at night."

* * *

"Jimmy?" Christie asked slowly. "Do you remember what I look like?"

"Yeah." He stopped in the hallway and set down his keys. Christie was standing there, waiting by the door for him.

She reached up and took off his sunglasses.

Jim knew what that meant—no hiding, no holding back. "I'll always remember what you look like. You'll always look exactly the same, you'll never get any older." He reached out and took her hands so he would have the same connection with her that she had.

She squeezed one of his hands. "And you'll always be the same guy to me, the same cop who saves people and tries to make the world a better place. The same one who's always getting into fights. The one who takes care of me."

Jim smiled, but he wasn't reassured.

"The same one I wasn't enough for."

His smile disappeared and he stepped back, looking away, but Christie didn't let go of his hands.

"I didn't want things to end badly between us."

"You want to stay friends?" he asked without looking up at her.

"Yeah. Jimmy, I know you. You'll be okay whether or not I'm here. You don't need me."

"Maybe it's not a question of need. Maybe… Christie, I want you with me. Come on, Christie—forget the past year and a half and tell me—do you love me?"

There was silence. He knew she was staring at him. He wished he could see the look on her face.

She didn't answer.

THE END

* * *

_(Christie was being very mean one night and so I ended up with a couple alternate endings. This would have been the "end of show" leads into the beginning of the next show…)_

"Come on, Christie—forget the past year and a half. Forget I can't see for one second—it doesn't really matter. Just forget all that and tell me—do you love me?"

There was silence. He knew she was staring at him. He wished he could see the look on her face. She didn't answer.

_Last time on Blind Justice…_

He couldn't look at her. Not for lack of trying, she knew. Used to be he could take one look at her and know what she was thinking and feeling, look into her very soul almost. But now, even though he was standing a mere ten feet away, that connection had been lost.

In the silence she knew he didn't need an answer, he'd stopped expecting one.

"Now what?" he asked. He shrugged and turned away, left her standing there and sank onto the couch.

"Love isn't everything."

* * *

_(Dialogue from the very last scene of Chapter Thirty—it just wasn't the type of thing that normally comes up in conversation, nor would they have followed up on it if Tom had asked the question. I deleted it as forced dialogue. This wasn't supposed to be a buddy movie.)_

"You two okay, partnered up?" Tom asked. "Not that I should ask when you're both here…"

Jim looked over at Karen, wishing he could see her reaction to the question. "Are you okay with me as a partner, Karen?" He smiled. "Not gonna go have a conversation with the boss about me?"

"We're long past that conversation," she said.

Jim nodded. "You know, I never had a girl for a partner before you, but I'm okay with that."

"You're okay with never having had a girl partner?" It sounded like Karen was grinning as she said, "And don't say that's so typical of a woman, turning your words around like that."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"Well, I never had a blind partner before, so I guess we're even," she said dryly.

"And Marty's calmed down, right?" Tom asked.

"Calmed down?" Marty asked.

"We're all friends, now, right?"

"Friends?" Marty asked.

"You didn't say anything about—" Jim started.

"I already told him he had to earn—" Marty started at the same time.

Jim glanced at Marty and they both started laughing. "Exactly," Jim said.

Tom sighed.

"Lighten up," Jim told him.

"Yeah, who said anything about being friends?" Marty asked.

Jim reached out carefully toward the pizza pan. "There's absolutely no reason for us to be friends," he said. He'd been friends with Terry, and sometimes he wondered if he would have called Terry on his inability to do his job if they hadn't been friends. Sometimes he thought he could trust Marty and Karen and Tom more than he'd been able to trust Terry. Jim clenched the crust of the pizza and pulled.

"Here's the spatula," Karen said, gently placing the handle against the back of his hand.

Jim reached over with his free hand and cut the piece out.

"What do friends do?" Marty asked. "Go to the bar together?"

Jim waved a hand at him. "Bad example."

"Go to games? Take their wives out together?"

"Yeah, but… I thought you and I were friends, right?" Tom asked, sounding almost worried.

"Not really," Marty said.

Tom made some noise. Jim was sure he was trying to just blow off the comment.

"Just kidding, Tom. Now who needs to lighten up?"

"You actually want to be friends with Marty?" Karen asked. "No offense, Marty."

"Yeah, who'd want to be friends with me when they could be friends with that Anne friend of yours. You know, the bitchy one."

Jim groaned. He didn't want to get into the thing with Anne again.

"Hey," Tom defended, "she was pretty."

"So what?" Marty asked.

"Yeah, so?" Karen asked.

"Jim, help me out here," Tom pleaded.

"I'm not gonna say anything about Anne." He grabbed his water, feeling his face getting red just from saying her name. He half expected Marty to come up with a comment like "you met her, right, Jim," but Marty was blissfully quiet.

"You met her, right, Jim?" Tom asked.

Jim glanced at Karen, hoping she was looking at him and would notice his silent plea for help.

"What was that look for?" Tom asked.

"Yes, I've met Anne," Jim said. He considered for a second, toying with his pizza, telling Tom everything. But Tom didn't need to know, and sometimes it's a stronger guy who holds it in.

"That's all I wanted to know. But it's not like I'd have a chance with her, if she doesn't date cops."

Jim couldn't look up. He could just about see Anne with Tom, or the faceless representation of Tom his imagination had conjured up, and her telling him everything. She'd never exactly promised to keep it to herself.

"I can take a hint," Tom said. "So, what are you guys secretly planning for my birthday?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Your little secret lunch the other day."


End file.
